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Wild Justice

There were only fifteen joining passengers for the British Airwaysflight at Victoria Airport on the island of Malic in the oceanicrepublic of the Seychelles.

Two couples formed a tight group as they waited their turn fordeparture formalities. They were all young, all deeply tanned and theyseemed still carefree and relaxed by their holiday in that islandparadise. However, one of them made her three companions seeminsignificant by the sheer splendour of her physical presence.

She was a tall girl, with long limbs and her head set on a proud,shapely neck. Her thick, sun-gilded blonde hair was twisted into abraid and coiled high on top of her head, and the sun had touched herwith gold and brought out the bloom of youth and health upon herskin.

As she moved with the undulating grace of one of the big predatorycats, bare feet thrust into open sandals, so the big pointed breastsjoggled tautly under the thin cotton of her tee-shirt and the tightround buttocks strained the faded denim of her hacked-off shorts.

Across the front of her tee-shirt was blazoned the legend "I AM A LOVENUT" and below it was drawn the suggestive outline of a coco-de-mer.

She smiled brilliantly at the dark-skinned Seychellois immigrationofficer as she slid the green United States passport with its goldeneagle across the desk to him, but when she turned to her male companionshe spoke in quick fluent German. She retrieved her passport and ledthe others through into the security area.

Again she smiled at the two members of the Seychelles

Police Force who were in charge of the weapons search, and she swungthe net carry bag off her shoulder.

"You want to check these?" she asked, and they all laughed. The bagcontained two huge coco-de-mer; the grotesque fruit, each twice thesize of a human head, were the most popular souvenirs of the Islands.

Each of her three companions carried similar trophies in net bags, andthe police officer ignored such familiar objects and instead ran hismetal detector in a perfunctory manner over the canvas flight bagswhich made up the rest of their hand luggage. It buzzed harshly on onebag and the boy who carried it shamefacedly produced a small Nikkormatcamera. More laughter and then the police officer waved the groupthrough into the final Departure Lounge.

It was already crowded with transit passengers who had boarded atMauritius, and beyond the lounge windows the huge Boeing 747 jumbosquatted on the tarmac, lit harshly by floodlights as the refuellingtenders fussed about her.

There were no free seats in the lounge and the group of four formed astanding circle under one of the big revolving punk ah fans, for thenight was close and humid and the mass of humanity in the closed roomsullied the air with tobacco smoke and the smell of hot bodies.

The blonde girl led the gay chatter and sudden bursts of laughter,standing inches above her two male companions and a full head above theother girl, so that they were a focus of attention for the hundreds ofother passengers.

Their manner had changed subtly since they entered the lounge; therewas a sense of relief as though a serious obstacle had been negotiated,and an almost feverish excitement in the timbre of their laughter. Theywere never still, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, hands fiddlingwith hair or clothing.

Although they were clearly a closed group, quarantined by an almostconspiratorial air of camaraderie, one of the transit passengers lefthis wife sitting and stood up from his seat across the lounge.

"Say, do you speak English?" he asked, as he approached the group.

He was a heavy man in his middle fifties with a thick thatch ofsteel-grey hair, dark horn-rimmed spectacles, and the easy confidentmanner of success and wealth.

Reluctantly the group opened for him, and it was the tall blonde girlwho answered, as if by right.

"Sure, I'm American also."

"No kidding?" The man chuckled. "Well, what do you know." And he wasstudying her with open admiration. "I just wanted to know what thosethings are." He pointed to the net bag of nuts that lay at her feet.

"They are coco-de-mer," the blonde answered.

"Oh yeah, I've heard of them."

"They call them "love nuts"," the girl went on, stooping to open theheavy bag at her feet. "And you can see why." She displayed one ofthe fruit for him.

The double globes were joined in an exact replica of a pair of humanbuttocks.

"Back end." She smiled, and her teeth were so white they appeared astranslucent as fine bone china.

"Front end." She turned the nut, and offered for his inspection theperfect mons vener is complete with a feminine gash and a tuft ofcoarse curls, and now it was clear she was flirting and teasing; shealtered her stance, thrusting her hips forward slightly, and the manglanced down involuntarily at her own plump mons beneath the tight bluedenim, its deep triangle bisected by the fold of material which hadtucked up into the cleft.

He flushed slightly and his lips parted with a small involuntary intakeof breath.

"The male tree has a stamen as thick and as long as your arm." Shewidened her eyes to the size and colour of blue pansies, and across thelounge the man's wife stood up and came towards them, warned by somefeminine instinct. She was much younger than her husband and veryheavy and awkward with child.

"The Seychellois will tell you that in the full moon the male pulls upits roots and walks around to mate with the females---"

"As long and as thick as your arm-" smiled the pretty littledark-haired girl beside her, " wow!" She was also teasing now, andboth girls dropped their gaze deliberately down the front of the man'sbody. He squirmed slightly, and the two young men who flanked himgrinned at his discomfort.

His wife reached him and tugged at his arm. There was a red angry rashof prickly heat on her throat and little beads of perspiration acrossher upper lip, like transparent blisters.

"Harry, I'm not feeling well, "she whined softly.

"I've got to go now," he mumbled with relief, his poise and confidenceshaken, and he took his wife's arm and led her away.

"Did you recognize him?" asked the dark-haired girl in German, stillsmiling, her voice pitched very low.

"Harold McKevitt," the blonde replied softly in the same language.

"Neurosurgeon from Forth Worth. He read the closing paper to theconvention on Saturday morning." She explained. "Big fish very bigfish," and like a cat she ran the pink tip of her tongue across herlips.

Of the four hundred and one passengers in the final Departure Loungethat Monday evening three hundred and sixty were surgeons, or theirwives. The surgeons, including some of the most eminent in the worldof medicine, had come from Europe and England and the United States,from Japan and South America and Asia, for the convention that hadended twenty-four hours previously on the island of Mauritius, fivehundred miles to the south of Malic island. This was one of the firstflights out since then and it had been fully booked ever since theconvention had been convoked.

"British Airways announces the departure of Flight BA 070 for Nairobiand London; will transit passengers please board now through the maingate. "The announcement was in the soft singsong of the Creole accent,and there was a massed movement towards the exit.

"Zero Seven Zero you are cleared to start and taxi to holding point forrunway Zero One."

"Please copy amendment to our flight plan for Nairobi.

Number of Pax aboard should be 401. We have a full house."

"Roger, Speedbird, your flight plan is amended." The gigantic aircraftwas still in its nose-high climb configuration and the seat belt andno-smoking lights burned brightly down the length of the firstclasscabin. The blonde girl and her companion sat side by side in the roomyseats and directly behind the forward bulkhead that partitioned off thecommand area and the first-class galley. The seats that the youngcouple occupied had been reserved many months previously.

The blonde nodded to her companion and he leaned forward to screen herfrom the passengers across the aisle while she slipped one of thecoco-de-mer from its net bag and held it in her lap.

Through its natural division the nut had been carefully sawn into twosections to allow removal of the milk and the white flesh, then the twosections had been glued together again just as neatly. The joint wasonly apparent after close inspection.

The girl inserted a small metal instrument into the joint and twistedit sharply, and with a soft click the two sections fell apart like anEaster egg.

In the nests formed by the double husk of the shells, padded withstrips of plastic foam, were two smooth, grey, egg-like objects eachthe size of a baseball.

They were grenades of East German manufacture, with the Warsaw Pactcommand designation. The outer layer of each grenade was of armouredplastic, of the type used in land mines to prevent discovery byelectronic metal detectors. The yellow stripe around each grenadeindicated that it was not a fragmentation type, but was designed forhigh impact concussion.

The blonde girl took a grenade in her left hand, unlatched her lap beltand slipped quietly from her seat.

The other passengers paid her only passing interest as she duckedthrough the curtains into the galley area. However, the purser and thetwo stewardesses, still strapped into their fold-down seats, looked upsharply as she entered the service area.

I'm sorry, madam, but I must ask you to return to your seat until thecaptain extinguishes the seat-belt lights." The blonde girl held upher left hand and showed him the shiny grey egg.

This is a special grenade, designed for killing the occupants of abattle tank," she said quietly. "It could blow the fuselage of thisaircraft open like a paper bag or kill by concussion any human beingwithin fifty yards." She watched their faces, saw the fear bloom likean evil flower.

"It is fused to explode three seconds after it leaves my hand."

She paused again, and her eyes glittered with excitement and her breathwas quick and shallow.

"You." she selected the purser, take me to the flight deck; you othersstay where you are. Do nothing, say nothing." When she ducked intothe tiny cockpit, hardly large enough to contain the members of theflight crew and its massed banks of instruments and electronicequipment, all three men turned to look back at her in mild surpriseand she lifted her hand and showed them what she carried.

They understood instantly.

"I am taking command of this aircraft," she said, and then, to theflight engineer, "Switch off all communications equipment." Theengineer glanced quickly at his captain, and when he nodded curtly,began obediently to shut down his radios the very high frequency sets,then the high frequency. the ultra high frequency And the satelliterelay," the girl commanded. He glanced up at her, surprised by herknowledge.

"And don't touch the bug." He blinked at that. No body, but nobodyoutside the company should have known about the special relay which,when activated by the button beside his right knee, would instantlyalert Heathrow Control to an emergency and allow them to monitor anyconversation on the flight deck. He lifted his hand away.

"Remove the fuse to the bug circuit." She indicated the correct boxabove his head, and he glanced at the captain again, but her voicestung like the tail of a scorpion: "Do what I tell you." Carefully heremoved the fuse and she relaxed slightly.

"Read your departure clearance," she instructed.

"We are cleared to radar departure on track for Nairobi and anunrestricted climb to cruise altitude of thirty-nine thousand feet."

"When is your next "operations normal" due?" Operations normal was theroutine report to Nairobi to assure them that the flight was proceedingas planned.

"In eleven minutes and thirty-five seconds. "The engineer was a young,dark-haired, rather handsome man with a deep forehead, pale skin andthe quick, efficient manner instilled by his training.

The girl turned to the captain of the Boeing and their gazes locked asthey measured each other. The captain's hair was more grey than blackand cropped close to his big rounded skull. He was bull-necked, andhad the beefy, ruddy face of a farmer or of a butcher but his eyes weresteady and his manner calm and unshakeable. He was a man to watch, thegirl recognized instantly.

"I want you to believe that I am committed entirely to this operation,"she said, "and that I would welcome the opportunity to sacrifice mylife to my cause." Her dark blue eyes held his without fear, and sheread the first growth of respect in him. That was good,

all part of her careful calculations.

"I believe that," said the Pilot, and nodded once.

"Your duty is to the four hundred and seventeen lives aboard thisaircraft," she went on. He did not have to reply.

They will be safe, just as long as you follow my commands implicitly.That I promise you."

"Very well."

"Here is our new destination." She handed him a small whitetypewritten card. "I want a new course with forecast winds, and a timeof arrival. Your turn onto the new heading to commence immediatelyafter your next "operations normal" report in-" She glanced back at theengineer for the time.

"Nine minutes fifty-eight seconds, "he said promptly.

" and I want your turn to the new heading to be very gentle,

very balanced. We don't want any of the passengers to spill theirchampagne do we?" In the few minutes that she had been on the flightdeck she had already established a bizarre rapport with the captain; itwas a blend of reluctant respect and overt hostility and of sexualawareness. She had dressed deliberately to reveal her body, and in herexcitement her nipples had hardened and darkened, pushing out throughthe thin cotton shirt with its suggestive legend, and the musky woman'ssmell of her body again intensified by her excitement filled theconfined cockpit.

Nobody spoke again for many minutes, then the flight engineer broke thesilence.

Thirty seconds to "operations normal"."

"All right, switch on the

FIF and make the report."

"Nairobi Approach this is Speedbird Zero

Seven Zero."

"Go ahead Speedbird Zero Seven Zero."

"Operations normal, "said the engineer into his headset.

"Roger, Zero Seven Zero. Report again in forty minutes."

"Zero

Seven Zero." The blonde girl sighed with relief. "All right, shutdown the set." Then to the captain, "Disengage the flight director andmake the turn to the new heading by hand; let's see how gentle you canbe.".

The turn was a beautiful exhibition of flying, two minutes to make achange of 76" of heading, the needles of the turn and-balance indicatornever deviating a hair's breadth, and when it was completed,

the girl smiled for the first time.

It was a gorgeous sunny flash of very white teeth.

"Good," she said, smiling directly into the captain's face.

"What is your name?"

"Cyril," he replied after a moment's hesitation.

"You can call me Ingrid,"she invited.

There was no set routine to the days in this new command of PeterStride's, except the obligatory . . lkhour on the range with pistoland automatic weapons. No member of Thor Command not even thetechnicians were spared daily range practice.

The rest of Peter's day had been filled with unrelenting activity,beginning with a briefing on the new electronic communicationsequipment that had just been installed in qK1, V his command aircraft.This had taken half the morning, and he had been only just in time tojoin his striker force in the main cabin of the Hercules transport forthe day's exercise.

Peter jumped with the first stick of ten men. They jumped from fivehundred feet, the parachutes seeming to snap open only seconds beforethey hit the ground. How

4 ever, the crosswind had been strong enough to spread them out alittle even from that height. The first landing had not been tightenough for Peter. They had taken two minutes fifty-eight seconds fromjump to penetration of the deserted administration block standingforlornly in one of the military zones of Salisbury Plain.

"If they had been holding hostages in here, we'd have arrived just intime to start mopping up the blood," Peter told his men grimly. "We'lldo it again!

This time they had cut one minute fifty seconds off their time, fallingin a tightly steered pattern about the building beating the time ofColin Noble's No 2 striker team by ten seconds.

To celebrate Peter had scorned the military transports and they had runthe five miles to the airstrip, each man in full combat kit andcarrying the enormous bundle of his used parachute silk.

The Hercules was waiting to fly them back to base, but it was afterdark before they landed and taxied into Thor Command's securitycompound at the end of the main runway.

For Peter the temptation to leave the debriefing to Colin Noble hadbeen strong indeed. His driver would have picked up Melissa-Jane atEast Croydon Station and she would already be waiting alone in the newcottage, only half a mile from the base gates.

He had not seen her for six weeks, not since he had taken command ofThor, for in all that time he had not allowed himself a single day'srespite. He felt a tickle of guilt now, that he should be allowinghimself this indulgence, and so he lingered a few minutes after thebriefing to transfer command to Colin Noble.

"Where are you going for the weekend?"Colin demanded.

"She's taking me to a pop concert tomorrow night The Living

Dead, no less, Peter chuckled. "Seems I haven't lived until I hearthe

Dead."

"Give M.J. my love, and a kiss Colin told him.

Peter placed high value on his new-found privacy. He had lived most ofhis adult life in officers" quarters and messes, constantly surroundedby other human beings.

However, this command had given him the opportunity to escape.

The cottage was -only four and a half minutes" drive from the compoundbut it might have been an island. It had come furnished and at arental that surprised him pleasantly.

Behind a high hedge of dog rose, off a quiet lane, and set in asprawling rather unkempt garden, it had become home in a few weeks. Hehad even been able to unpack his books at last. Books accumulated overtwenty years, and stored against such an opportunity. It was a comfortto have them piled around his desk in the small front room or stackedon the tables beside his bed, even though there had been littleopportunity to read much of them yet. The new job was a tough one.

Melissa-Jane must have heard the crunch of gravel under the

Rover's tyres, and she would certainly have been waiting for it. Shecame running out of the front door into the driveway, directly into thebeam of the headlights, and Peter had forgotten how lovely she was. Hefelt his heart squeezed.

When he stepped out of the car she launched herself at him and clungwith both arms around his chest. He held her for a long moment,

neither of them able to speak. She was so slim and warm, her bodyseeming to throb with life and vitality.

At last he lifted her chin and studied her face. The huge violet eyesswam with happy tears, and she sniffed loudly.

Already she had that old-fashioned English porcelain beauty; therewould never be the acne and the agony of puberty for Melissa-jane.

"Oh, Daddy, you are a real fusspot." She smiled through the tears andon tip-toe she reached up to kiss him full on the mouth.

They ate lasagne and cas sata at an Italian restaurant in Croydon,

and Melissa-Jane did most of the talking. Peter watched andlistened,

revelling in her freshness and youth.

It was hard to believe she was not yet fourteen, for physically she wasalmost fully developed, the breasts under the white turtle-neck sweaterno longer merely buds; and she conducted herself like a woman ten yearsolder, only the occasional gleeful giggle betraying her or the lapse asshe used some ghastly piece of Roedean slang, - "grotty"

was one of these.

Back at the cottage she made them Ovaltine and they drank it beside thefire, planning every minute of the weekend ahead of them and skirtingcarefully around the pitfalls, the unwritten taboos of theirrelationship which centred mostly on "Mother'.

When it was time for bed she came and sat in his lap and traced thelines of his face with her fingertip.

"Do you know who you remind me of?"

"Tell me,"he invited.

"Gary Cooper only much younger, of course," she added hurriedly.

"Of course," Peter chuckled. "But where did you ever hear of Gary

Cooper? "They had High Noon as the Sunday movie on telly last week."

She kissed him again and her lips tasted of sugar and Ovaltine, and herhair smelled sweet and clean.

"How old are you, anyway, Daddy?"

"I'm thirty-nine."

"That isn't really so terribly old." She comforted him uncertainly.

"Sometimes it's as old as the dinosaurs-" and at that moment thebleeper beside his empty cup began its strident, irritating electronictone, and Peter felt the slide of dread in his stomach.

Not now, he thought. Not on this day when I have been so long withouther.

The bleeper was the. size of a cigarette pack, the globe of its singleeye glared redly, insistent as the audio-signal.

Reluctantly Peter picked it up and, with his daughter still in his lap,he switched in the miniature two-way radio and depressed the sendbutton.

"Thor One,"he said.

The reply was tinny and distorted, the set near the limit of itsrange.

"General Stride, Atlas has ordered condition Alpha." Another falsealarm, Peter thought bitterly. There had been a dozen Alphas in thelast month, but why on this night. Alpha was the first stage of alertwith the teams embarked and ready for condition Bravo which was the

GO.

"Inform Atlas we are seven minutes from Bravo." Four and a half ofthose would be needed for him to reach the compound, and suddenly thedecision to rent the cottage was shown up as dangerousself-indulgence.

In four and a half minutes innocent lives can be lost.

"Darling," he hugged Melissa-Jane swiftly, "I'm sorry."

"That's all right." She was stiff and resentful.

"There will be another time soon, I promise."

"You always promise," she whispered, but she saw he was no longerlistening. He dislodged her and stood up, the heavy jawline clenchedand thick dark brows almost meeting above the narrow, straight,aristocratic nose.

"Lock the door when I'm gone, darling. I'll send the driver for you ifit's Bravo. He will drive you back to Cambridge and I will let yourmother know to expect YOU." He stepped out into the night, stillshrugging into his duffle coat, and she listened to the whirl of thestarter, the rush of tyres over gravel and the dwindling note of theengine.

The controller in Nairobi tower allowed the British Airways flight fromSeychelles to run fifteen seconds past its reporting time. Then hecalled once, twice and a third time without reply. He switchedfrequencies to the channels reserved for information, approach, towerand, finally, emergency, on one at least of which 070 should have beenmaintaining listening watch. There was still no reply.

Speedbird 070 was forty-five seconds past "operations normal"

before he removed the yellow slip from his approach rack and placed itin the emergency "lost contact" slot, and immediately search and rescueprocedures were in force.

Speedbird 070 was two minutes and thirteen seconds past

"operations normal" when the telex pull sheet landed on the British

Airways desk at Heathrow Control, and sixteen seconds later Atlas hadbeen informed and had placed Thor Command on condition Alpha.

The moon was three days short of full, its upper rim only slightlyindented by the earth's shadow. However, at this altitude it seemedalmost as big as the sun itself and its golden light was certainly morebeautiful.

In the tropical summer night great silver cloud ranges towered into thesky, and mushroomed into majestic thunder heads, and the moonlightdressed them in splendour.

The aircraft fled swiftly between the peaks of cloud, like a monstrousblack bat on back-swept wings, it bored into the west.

Under the port-side wing a sudden dark chasm opened in the clouds likethe mouth of hell itself, and deep in its maw there was the fainttwinkle of far light, like a dying star.

"That will be Madagascar," said the captain, his voice over-loud in thequiet cockpit. "We are on track." And behind his shoulder the girlstirred and carefully transferred the grenade into her other handbefore she spoke for the first time in half an hour.

"Some of our passengers might still be awake and notice that." Sheglanced at her wristwatch. "It's time to wake up the others and letthem know the good news." She turned back to the flight engineer.

"Please switch on all the cabin lights and the seat-belt lights and letme have the microphone." Cyril Watkins, the captain, was reminded onceagain that this was a carefully planned operation. The girl was timingher announcement to the passengers when their resistance would be atits lowest possible ebb; at two o'clock in the morning. after havingbeen awoken from the disturbed rest of intercontinental flight theirimmediate reaction was likely to be glum resignation.

"Cabin and seat-belt lights are on," the engineer told her, and handedher the microphone.

"Good mornin', ladies and gentlemen." Her voice was warm, clear andbright. "I regret having to waken you at such an inconvenient hour.However, I have a very important announcement to make and I want all ofyou to pay the most careful attention." She paused, and in thecavernous and crowded cabins there was a general stir and heads beganto lift, hair tousled and eyes unfocused and blinking away the cobwebsof sleep. "You will notice that the seat-belt lights are on. Will youall check that the persons beside you are fully awake and that theirseat belts are fastened. Cabin staff please make certain that this isdone." She paused again;

the belts would inhibit any sudden movement, any spontaneous action atthe first shock. Ingrid noted the passage of sixty seconds on thesweep hand of her wristwatch before going on.

"First let me introduce myself. My name is Ingrid. I am a seniorofficer of the Action Commando for Human Rights,-" Captain Watkinscurled his lip cynically at the pompous self-righteous title, but keptsilent, staring ahead into the starry, moonlit depths of space. andthis aircraft is under my command. Under no circumstances whatsoeverwill any of you leave your seats without the express permission of oneof my officers. if this order is disobeyed, it will lead directly tothe destruction of this aircraft and all aboard by high explosive." Sherepeated the announcement immediately in fluent German, and then inless proficient but clearly intelligible French before reverting to

English once again.

"Officers of the Action Commando will wear red shirts for immediateidentification and they will be armed." As she spoke her threecompanions in the front of the first-class cabin were stripping out thefalse bottoms from their canvas flight bags. The space was only twoinches deep by fourteen by eight, but it was sufficient for thebrokendown twelve bore pistols, and ten rounds of buckshot cartridges.The barrels of the pistols were fourteen inches long, the bores wereSmooth and made of armoured plastic.

This material would not have withstood the passage of a solid bulletthrough rifling or any of the newer explosive propellants but it hadbeen designed for use with the lower velocity and pressures of multipleshot and cordite. The breech piece was of plastic as were the doublepistol grips, and these clipped swiftly into position. The only metalin the entire weapon was the case-steel firing pin and spring, nobigger than one of the metal studs in the canvas flight bag, so theywould not have activated the metal detectors of the security check at

Malik airport. The ten cartridges contained in each bag had plasticcases and bases; again only the percussion caps were of aluminiumfoil,

which would not disturb an electrical field. The cartridges werepacked in looped cartridge belts which buckled around the waist.

The weapons were short, black and ugly; they required reloading like aconventional shotgun, the spent shells were not self-ejecting and therecoil was so vicious that it would break the wrists of the user whodid not bear down heavily on the pistol grips. However, at ranges upto thirty feet the destructive power was awesome, at twelve feet itwould disembowel a man and at six feet it would blow his head offcleanly yet it did not have the penetrating power to hole the pressurehull of an intercontinental airliner.

It was the perfect weapon for the job in hand, and within a few secondsthree of them had been assembled and loaded and the two men had slippedon the bright scarlet shirts that identified them over their tee-shirtsand moved to their positions, one in the back of the first-class cabinand one in the back of the tourist cabin, they stood with theirgrotesque weapons ostentatiously displayed.

"MON The slim pretty, dark-haired German girl stayed in her seat alittle longer, working swiftly and neatly as she opened the remainingcoco-de-mer and transferred their contents into two of the nettingbags. These grenades differed only from the one carried by Ingrid inthat they had double red lines painted around the middle. Thissignified that they were electronically fused.

Now Ingrid's clear young voice resumed over the cabin address system,and the long rows of passengers all fully awake now sat rigid andattentive, their faces reflecting an almost uniform expression of shockand trepidation.

The officer of the action commando who is moving down the cabin at thistime is placing high explosive grenades,-" The dark-haired girl starteddown the aisle, and every fifteen rows she opened one of the overheadlockers and placed a grenade in it, closed the locker and moved on.

The passengers" heads revolved slowly in unison as they watched herwith the fascination of total horror. "A single one of those grenadeshas the explosive power to destroy this aircraft, they were designed tokill by concussion the crew of a battle tank protected by six inches ofarmour. the officer is placing fourteen of these devices along thelength of this aircraft. They can be detonated simultaneously by anelectronic transmitter under my control,-" the voice contained a hintof mischief now, a little undercurrent of laughter, and if thathappened they'd hear the bang at the North Pole!"

The passengers stirred like the leaves of a tree in a vagrant breeze;

somewhere a woman began to weep. It was a strangled passionless soundand nobody even looked in her direction.

"But don't worry yourselves. "That isn't going to happen.

Because everybody is going to do exactly as they are told, and whenit's all over you are going to be proud of your part in this operation.We are all partners in a noble and glorious mission, we are allwarriors for freedom and for the dignity of man. Today we take amighty step forward into the new world a world purged and cleansed ofinjustice and tyranny and dedicated to the welfare of all itspeoples."

The woman was still weeping, and now a child joined her on a higher,

more strident note.

The dark-haired girl returned to her seat and now she retrieved thecamera that had activated the metal detector at Malic airport. Sheslung it around her neck and crouched again to assemble the tworemaining shot pistols; carrying them and the cartridge belts, shehurried forward to the flight deck where the big blonde kissed herdelightedly and unashamedly on the lips.

"Karen, Liebling, you were wonderful. "And then she took the camerafrom her and slung it around her own neck.

"This-" she explained to the captain " is not what it appears to be. Itis the remote radio detonator for the grenades in the fuselage." Henodded without replying, and with obvious relief Ingrid disarmed thegrenade that she had carried for so long by replacing the safety pin.She handed it to the other girl.

"How much longer to -the coast?" she asked as she strapped and buckledthe cartridge belt around her waist.

"Thirty-two minutes," said the flight engineer promptly, and

Ingrid opened the breech of the pistol, checked the load and thensnapped it closed again.

"You and Henri can stand down now," she told Karen.

"Try and sleep." The operation might last many days still, andexhaustion would be the most dangerous enemy they would have to contendwith. It was for this reason alone that they had employed such a largeforce. From now on, except in an emergency, two of them would be onduty and two would be resting.

"You have done a very professional job," said the pilot, Cyril

Watkins," so far."

"Thank you." Ingrid laughed, and over the back of his seat placed acomradely hand on his shoulder. "We have practised very hard for thisday." Peter Stride dipped his lights three times as he raced down thelong narrow alley that led to the gates of the compound without slowingthe Rover, and the sentry swung the gate open just in time for him toroar through.

There were no floodlights, no bustling activity just the two aircraftstanding together in the echoing cavern of the hangar.

The Lockheed Hercules seemed to fill the entire building, that had beenbuilt to accommodate the smaller bombers of World War II. The tallvertical fin of its epinage reached to within a few feet of the roofgirders.

Beside it the Hawker Siddeley HS 125 executive jet seemed dainty andineffectual. The differing origins of the machines emphasized thatthis unit was a co-operative venture between two nations.

This was underscored once more when Colin Noble hurried forward to meetPeter as he cut the Rover's engine and lights.

"A grand night for it, Peter. "There was no mistaking the drawl ofmid-Western America, although Colin looked more like a successfulused-car salesman than a colonel in the U.S. Marines. In thebeginning

Peter had believed that this strict apportioning of material andmanpower on equal national lines might weaken the effectiveness of

Atlas. He no longer had those doubts.

Colin wore the nondescript blue overalls and cloth cap, bothembroidered with the legend "THOR COMMUNICATIONS" which deliberatelymade him look more of a technician than a soldier.

Colin was Peter's second in command. They had known each other onlythe six weeks since Peter had assumed command of Thor but after a shortperiod of mutual wariness the two men had formed one of those fastbonds of liking and mutual respect.

Colin was of medium height, but none the less a big man. First glancemight have given the impression that he was fat, for his body had acertain toad-like spread to it.

There was no fat upon his frame, however, it was all muscle and bone.He had boxed heavyweight for Princeton and the marines, and his noseabove the wide laughing mouth had been broken just below the bridge, itwas lumped and twisted slightly.

Colin cultivated the boisterous bluff manner of a career athlete,

but his eyes were the colour of burned toffee and were brightlyintelligent and all-seeing. He was tough and leery as an old alleycat. It was not easy to earn the respect of Peter Stride. Colin haddone so in under six weeks.

He stood now between the two aircraft, while his men went about theirAlpha preparation with quick understated efficiency.

Both aircraft were painted in commercial airline style, blue and whiteand gold, with a stylized portrait of the Thunder God on the tail finand the "THOR COMMUNICATIONS" title down the fuselage. They could landat any airport in the world without causing undue comment.

"What is the buzz, Colin?" Peter Stride demanded as he slammed the

Rover's door and hurried to meet the American. It had taken him sometime and conscious effort to adapt his language and mode of address tofit in with his new second-in-command. He had learned very early notto expect that, merely because he was the youngest major general inthe

British army, Colonel Colin Noble was going to call him "Sir" everytime he spoke.

"Missing aircraft." It could have been a train, an embassy, even anocean liner, Peter realized. "British Airways. For Chrissake let'sget out of the cold." The wind was flapping the legs of Colin'soveralls and tugging at his sleeves.

"Where?"

"Indian Ocean."

"Are we set for Bravo?" Peter asked as they climbed into his commandplane.

"All set." The interior of the Hawker had been restyled to make it acompact headquarters and communications centre.

There was comfortable seating for four officers directly behind theflight deck. Then the two electronic engineers and their equipmentoccupied a separate rear compartment, beyond which were the smalltoilet and galley in the extreme rear.

One of the technicians looked through the communicating door as

Peter stooped into the cabin. "Good evening, General Stride we have adirect link with Atlas established."

"Put him on the screen," he ordered as he sank into the padded leatherof his chair behind the small working desk.

There was a single fourteen-inch main television screen in the paneldirectly facing Peter, and above it four smaller six-inch screens forconference communication. The main screen came alive, and the image ofthe big noble leonine head firmed.

"Good afternoon, Peter." The smile was warm, charismatic,

compelling.

"Good evening, sir." And Dr. Kingston Parker tilted his head slightlyto acknowledge the reference to the time difference between

Washington and England.

"Right at this moment we are in the dark completely. All we have isthat BA 070 with four hundred and one passengers and sixteen crew on aflight from Malic to Nairobi has not reported for thirty-twominutes."

Parker was Chairman of the Intelligence Oversight Board, among otherduties, and he reported directly to the President of the United Statesin that capacity. He was the President's personal and trustedfriend.

They had been in the same class at Annapolis, both of them hadgraduated in the top twenty but, unlike the President, Parker had gonedirectly into government.

Parker was an artist, a talented musician, the author of four scholarlyworks of philosophy and politics, and a grand master of chess. A manof overwhelming presence, of vast humanity and towering intelligence.Yet also he was a secret man, avoiding the glaring scrutiny of themedia, hiding his ambitions, if ambitions he had although thepresidency of the United States would not be an impossible dream tosuch a man only taking up with rare skill and strength any burden thatwas thrust upon him.

Peter Stride had met him personally on half a dozen occasions sincebeing seconded to Thor. He had spent a weekend with Parker at his NewYork home, and his respect for the man had become boundless.

Peter realized that he was the perfect head for such a complex conceptas Atlas: it needed the philosopher's tempering influence over trainedsoldiers, it needed the tact and charisma of the diplomat to dealdirectly with the heads of two governments, and it needed that steelyintellect to make the ultimate decision that could involve hundreds ofinnocent lives and incur fearsome political consequences.

Now swiftly and incisively he told Peter what little they knew of

Flight 070 and what search and rescue routine was already in force,

before going on, "Without being alarmist, this does seem to be theperfect target. The flight carries most of the world's leadingsurgeons, and the convention was public knowledge eighteen monthsago.

Doctors have the necessary image to appeal to public sentiment andtheir nationalities are nicely mixed American, British, French,

Scandinavian, German, Italian, three of those countries havenotoriously soft records with militant activity. It's a Britishaircraft, and the final destination would probably have been chosen tofurther complicate the issue and inhibit any counter-action." Parkerpaused, and a small crease of worry appeared for a moment in the broadsmooth forehead.

"I have put Mercury on condition Alpha as well if this M is a strikethe final destination could just as easily be eastwards of theaircraft's last reported position." Atlas's offensive arm comprisedthree identical units.

Thor would be used only in Europe or Africa. Mercury was based on theAmerican Naval base in Indonesia and covered Asia and Australasia,

while Diana was in Washin ton itself and ready for counteraction ineither of the American continents.

"I have Tanner of Mercury on the other relay now. I will be back toyou in a few seconds, Peter."

"Very well, sir." The screen went blank, and in the chair beside himColin Noble lit one of his expensive

Dutch cheroots and crossed his ankles on the desk in front of him.

"Seems the great god Thor came down to earth for a little poon tangWhen he'd finished pleasuring one of the vestal virgins he thought he'dlet her know the honour she'd been given. "I'm Thor," he told her.""Tho she agreed, "but it wath loth of fun."" Peter shook his headsorrowfully. "That's funny?" he asked.

"Helps to while away the time." Colin glanced at his wristwatch.

"If this is another false alarm, it's going to make it thirteenstraight." He yawned. There was nothing to do.

It had all been done before. Everything was in the ultimate state ofreadiness. In the huge Hercules transport, every item of acomprehensive arsenal of equipment was ready for instant use. Thethirty highly trained soldiers were embarked. The flight crews of bothaircraft were at their stations, the communications technicians had setup their links with satellites and through them to the availablefligence computers in Washington and London. It remained only to waitthe greater part of a soldier's life was spent waiting, but

Peter had never become hardened to it. It helped now to have thecompanionship of Colin Noble.

In a life spent in the company of many men it was difficult to formclose relationships. Here in the smaller closed ranks of Thor inshared endeavour they had achieved that and become friends, and theirconversation was relaxed and desultory, moving casually from subject tosubject, but without relaxing the undercurrent of alertness thatgripped both men.

At one stage Kingston Parker came on the screen again to tell them thatsearch and rescue aircraft had found no indications at the lastreported position of 070, and that a photographic run by the "BigBird"

reconnaissance satellite had been made over the same area, but thatfilm would not be ready for appraisal for another fourteen hours.

Speedbird 070 was now one hour six minutes past "operations normal" andsuddenly Peter remembered Melissa-Jane. He asked communications for atelephone line and dialled the cottage. There was no reply, so thedriver would have collected her already. He hung up and rang Cynthiain Cambridge.

"Damn it, Peter. This really is most inconsiderate of you."

Freshly aroused from sleep, her voice was petulant, immediatelyawakening only Antipathies. "Melissa has been looking forward tothis-"

"Yes, I know, and so have U and George and I had arranged-"

George, her new husband, was a Political History don; despite himself

Peter quite liked the man. He had been very good to Melissa-Jane.

"The exigencies of the service." Peter cut in lightly and her voicetook on a bitter edge.

"How often I had to listen to that I hoped never to hear it again."They were on the same futile old treadmill and he had to stop it.

"Look, Cynthia. Melissa is on her way" In front of him the bigtelevision screen lit and Kingston Parker's eyes were dark withregret,

as though he mourned for all mankind.

"I have to go," Peter told the woman whom once he had loved, and brokethe connection, leaning forward attentively towards the image on thescreen.

"The South African radar de fences have painted an unidentified targetapproaching their airspace," Kingston Parker told him. "Its speed andposition correspond with those of 070. They have scrambled a Mirageflight to intercept but in the meantime I'm assuming that it's amilitant strike and we'll go immediately to condition Bravo, if youplease, Peter."

"We are on our way, sir." And beside him Colin Noble took his feet offthe desk and thumped them together onto the floor. The cheroot wasstill clamped between his teeth.

The target was live and the pilot of the leading Mirage F. 1

interceptor had his flight computer in "attack" mode and all hisweaponry missiles and cannon were armed. The computer gave him a timeto intercept of thirty-three seconds, and the target's heading wasconstant at 210" magnetic and its ground speed at 483 knots.

Ahead of him the dawn was rising in wildly theatrical display.

Avalanches of silver and pink cloud tumbled down the sky, and thesun,

still below the horizon, flung long lances of golden light across theheavens. The pilot leaned forward against his shoulder straps andlifted the Polaroid visor of his helmet with one gloved hand, strainingahead for the first glimpse of the target.

His trained gunfighter's eye picked out the dark speck against thedistracting background of cloud and sunlight and he made an almostimperceptible movement of the controls to avoid the direct head-onapproach to the target.

The speck swelled in size with disturbing rapidity as they converged atcombined speeds of nearly fifteen hundred miles per hour,

and at the instant he was certain of his identification the leader tookhis flight, still in a tight "finger five" , up into a vertical climbfrom which they rolled out neatly five thousand feet above the targetand on the same heading, immediately reducing power to conform in speedto the big aircraft far below.

Every minute increased the distance between the two aircraft, and bythe time they reached their ultimate destination wherever that might bethere would probably be a thousand miles or more separating them.

However, the big Hercules's slow speed became a virtue when the needarose to take its heavy load of men and equipment into short unsurfacedstrips in unlikely corners of the earth perhaps in the "hot and high"conditions that a pilot most dreads.

It was the Hawker's job to get Peter Stride to the scene of terroristactivity as swiftly as possible, and the general's job once there tostall and procrastinate and bargain until Colin Noble's assault teamcaught up with him.

The two men were still in contact, however, and the small centraltelevision screen in front of Peter was permanently lit with a view ofthe interior of the Hercules's main hold. When he lifted his head fromhis work, Peter Stride could see a picture of his troops, all in thecasual Thor overalls, lounging or sprawled in abandoned attitudes ofrelaxation down the central aisle of the Hercules. They also wereveterans at the hard game of waiting, while in the foreground Colin

Noble sat at his small work desk, going through the voluminous checklist for "condition Charlie" which was the next state of alert whenterrorist activity was confirmed.

Watching Colin Noble at work, Peter Stride found a moment to ponderonce again the enormous cost of maintaining Atlas, most of it paid bythe United States intelligence budget, and the obstacles and resistancethat had been overcome to launch the project in the first place. Onlythe success of the Israelis at Entebbe and of the Germans at Mogadishuhad made it possible, but there was still violent opposition in bothcountries to maintaining a dual national counteraction force.

With a preliminary click and hum the central screen of Peter'scommunications console came alive and Dr. Parker spoke before hisimage had properly hardened.

"I'm afraid it's condition Charlie, Peter," he said softly, and

Peter was aware of the rush of his blood through his veins. It wasnatural for a soldier whose entire life had been spent in training fora special moment in time to welcome the arrival of that moment yet hefound contempt for himself in that emotion; no sane man shouldanticipate violence and death, and all the misery and suffering whichattended them.

the South Africans have intercepted and identified 070. It enteredtheir airspace forty-five seconds ago."

"Radio contact?" Peter asked.

"No." Parker shook his great head. "It is declining contact, and wemust assume that it is under the control of militants so now I'm goingto be at this desk until this thing is settled." Kingston Parker neverused the emotive word terrorist" and he did not like to hear it fromhis subordinates either.

"Never hate your adversary blindly," he had told Peter once.

"llnderstand his motives, recognize and respect his strengths and youwill be better prepared to meet him."

"What co-operation can we expect?" Peter asked.

"All African States that we have so far been able to contact haveoffered full co-operation, including overflight, landing and refuellingfacilities and the South Africans are being helpful. I have spoken totheir defence minister and he has offered the fullest possibleco-operation. They will refuse 070 landing clearance, of course, and

I

anticipate that it will have to go on to one of the black statesfarther north, which is probably the militants" intention anyway. I

think you know my views about South Africa but in this instance I

must say they are being very good." Parker brought into the televisionshot a black briar pipe with a big round bowl, and began to stuff itwith tobacco.

His hands were large, like the rest of his body, but the fingers werelong and sup pleas those of a pianist which of course he was.

And Peter remembered the scented smell of the tobacco he smoked. Eventhough he was a non-smoker, Peter had not found-the odour offensive.

Both men were silent, deep in thought, Parker frowning slightly as heseemed to concentrate on his pipe. Then he sighed and looked upagain.

"All right, Peter. Let's hear what you have." Peter shuffled throughthe notes he had been making. "I have prepared four tentativescenarios and our responses to each, sir. The most importantconsideration is whether this is a strike "A Vallemande" or "A

l'italienne'!--" Parker nodded, listening; although this waswell-travelled ground they must go over it again. A strike in the

Italian fashion was the easier to resolve, a straight demand forcash.

The German tradition involved release of prisoners, social andpolitical demands that crossed national boundaries.

They worked on for another hour before they were interrupted again.

"Good God." It was a measure of Kingston Parker's astonishment that heused such strong language. "We have a new development here." It wasonly when 070 joined the eastern airway and began to initiate astandard approach and let down, without however obtaining air trafficcontrol clearance, that South African Air force Command suddenlyrealized what was about to happen.

Immediately emergency silence was imposed on all the aviationfrequencies while the approaching flight was bombarded by urgentcommands to immediately vacate national airspace. There was noresponse whatsoever, and one hundred and fifty nautical miles outfrom

Jan Smuts International Airport the Boeing reduced power and commenceda sedate descent to enter controlled airspace.

"British Airways 070 this is Jan Smuts Control, you are expresslyrefused clearance to join the circuit. Do you read me, 070?"

"British

Airways 070 this is Air force Command. You are warned that you are inviolation of national airspace. You are ordered to climb immediatelyto thirty thousand feet and turn on course for Nairobi." The Boeingwas a hundred nautical miles out and descending through fifteenthousand feet.

"Diamond Leader, this is Cheetah. Take the target under command andenforce departure clearance."

The long sleek aircraft in its mottled green and brown battlecamouflage dropped like a dart, rapidly overhauling the hugemulti-engined giant, diving down just behind the tailplane and thenpulling up steeply in front of the gaily painted red, white and bluenose.

Skilfully the Mirage pilot stationed his nimble little machine onehundred feet ahead of the Boeing and rocked his wings in the Follow me"command.

The Boeing sailed on serenely as though it had not seen or understood.The Mirage pilot nudged his throttles and the gap between the twoaircraft narrowed down to fifty feet. Again he rocked his wings andbegan a steady rate-one turn onto the northerly heading ordered byCheetah.

The Boeing held rock steady on its standard approach towards

Johannesburg, forcing the Mirage leader to abandon his attempts to leadher away.

He edged back alongside, keeping just above the jet-blast of the

Boeing's port engines until he was level with the cockpit and couldstare across a gap of merely fifty feet.

"Cheetah, this is Diamond One. I have a good view into target's flightdeck. There is a fourth person in the cockpit.

It's a woman. She appears to be armed with a machine pistol." Thefaces of the two pilots were white as bone as they turned to watch theinterceptor. The woman leaned over the back of the left-hand seat, andlifted the clumsy black weapon in an ironic salute. She smiled andthe

Position for head-on attack." The Mirage thundered instantly ahead andclimbed away swiftly, the other four aircraft of the flight sweeping into resume their tight "finger five" formation as they went out in awide turn ahead of the Boeing.

"Cheetah. We are in position for a head-on attack."

"Diamond

Flight. Simulate. Attack in line astern. Fivesecond intervals.

Minimum separation. Do not, I say again, do not open fire. This is asimulated attack. I say again, this is a simulated attack."

"Diamond

One understands simulated attack." And the Mirage F.1 winged over anddived, its speed rocketing around the mach scale, booming through thesonic barrier in a fearsomely aggressive display.

Cyril Watkins saw him coming from seven miles ahead.

"Jesus," he shouted. "This is real," and he lunged forward to takemanual control of the Boeing, to pull her off the automatic approachthat the electronic flight director was performing.

"Hold her steady." Ingrid raised her voice for the first time.

"Hold it." She swung the gaping double muzzles of the shot pistol ontothe flight engineer. "We don't need a navigator now." The captainfroze, and the Mirage howled down on them, seemed to grow until itfilled the whole view through the windshield ahead. At the lastpossible instant of time the nose lifted slightly and it flashed onlyfeet overhead, but the supersonic turbulence of its passage struck andtossed even that huge machine like a piece of thistledown.

"Here comes another, "Cyril Watkins shouted.

"I mean it." Ingrid pressed the muzzles so fiercely into the back ofthe flight engineer's neck that his forehead struck the edge of hiscomputer console, and there was the quick bright rose of blood on thepale skin.

The jet blasts struck the Boeing one after the other as the

Mirages attacked. Ingrid clutched wildly for support with her freehand, but kept the pistol jammed into the navigator's neck. "I meanit," she kept shouting. "I'll kill him and they could hear the screamsof the passengers even through the bulkhead of the flight deck.

Then the last Mirage was passed and gone and the Boeing's flightdirector recovered from the battering of close separation and quicklyrealigned the aircraft on the radio navigational beacons of Jan Smuts

Airport.

"They won't buzz us again." Ingrid stepped back from the flightengineer, allowing him to lift his head and wipe away the trickle ofblood on the sleeve of his shirt. "They can't come again. We are intocontrolled airspace." She pointed ahead. "Look!" The Boeing was downto five thousand feet, but the horizon was obscured by the haze of smogand summer heat.

To the right rose the smooth silhouette of the Kempton Park Power

Station cooling towers and, closer at hand, the poisonous yellowtablelands of the mine dumps squatted on the flat and featureless plainof the African high veld

Around them human habitation was so dense that hundreds of windowpanescaught the early morning sun and glittered like beacons.

Closer still was the long, straight, blue streak of the main runway ofJan Smuts Airport.

"Take her straight in on runway 21 ingrid ordered.

"We can't,-"

"Do it," snapped the girl. "Air traffic control will have cleared thecircuit. They can't stop us."

"Yes, they can," Cyril

Watkins answered. "Just take a look at the runway apron." They wereclose enough now to count five fuel tenders, to see the Shell companyinsignia on the tanks.

"They are going to block the runway." With the tankers were fivebrilliant red vehicles of the fire service and two big whiteambulances. They bumped wildly over the grass verge of the runway andthen, one after the other, tenders and fire control vehicles andambulances parked at intervals of a few hundred yards down thewhite-painted centre line of the runway.

"We can't land," said the captain.

"Take her off automatic and fly her in by hand." The girl's voice wasdifferent, hard, cruel.

The Boeing was sinking through a thousand feet, lined up for runway 21and directly ahead the revolving red beacons on top of the firevehicles seemed to flash a direct challenge.

"I can't pile into them," Cyril Watkins decided, and there was nolonger hesitation nor doubt in his tone. "I'm going to overshoot andget out of here."

"Land on the grass," the girl shrieked. "There is open grass on theleft of the runway put her down there." But Cyril

Watkins had leaned forward in his seat and rammed the bank of throttlesforward. The engines howled and the Boeing surged into a nose-highclimb.

The young flight engineer had swivelled his stool and was staring aheadthrough the windscreen. His whole body was rigid, his expressionintense and the smear of blood across his forehead was in vividcontrast to the pallor of his skin.

With his right hand he gripped the edge of his desk, and the knucklesof his fist were white and shiny as eggshell.

Without seeming to move the blonde girl had pinned the wrist of thatrigid right hand, pressing the muzzles of the pistol into it.

There was a crash of sound, so violent in the confines of the cabinthat it seemed to beat in their eardrums. The weapon kicked up as highas the girl's golden head and there was the immediate acrid stench ofburned cordite.

The flight engineer stared down incredulously at the desk top.

There was a hole blown through the metal as big as a teacup, and theedges were jagged with bright bare metal.

The blast of shot had amputated his hand cleanly at the wrist.

The severed member had been thrown forward into the space between thepilots" seats, with the shattered bone protruding from the mangledmeat. It twitched like a crushed and maimed insect.

"Land or you will be responsible for this man's life." The flightengineer clutched the stump of his arm against his belly and doubledover it silently, his face contorted by the shock.

Cyril Watkins tore his stricken gaze from the severed hand and lookedahead once more. There was wide open grass between the runway markersand the narrow taxiway.

The grass had been mown knee-high, and he knew the ground beneath itwould be fairly smooth.

Cyril's hand on the throttle bank pulled back smoothly, almost of itsown volition, the engine thunder died away and the nose droppedagain.

He held his approach aligned with the main runway until he was well inover the threshold lights. He did not want to alert the drivers of theblocking vehicles to his intention while they still had time to counterit.

"You murderous bitch," he said under his breath. "You filthy murderousbitch." He banked the Boeing steeply, realigned it with the long stripof open grass and cut the throttles completely, bringing her innose-high and just a fraction above the stall, flaring out deliberatelylow and banging the Boeing down into the grass for positive touchdown.

The huge machine settled to the rough strip, jolting and lurchingwildly as Cyril Watkins fought the rudders to keep them lined up,

holding his nose wheel off with the control yoke, while his co-pilotthrew all her giant engines into reverse thrust and trod firmly down onthe main landing gear brakes.

The fire engines and fuel tankers flashed past the starboard wing tip.The startled faces of their crews seemed very close and white then 070was past, her speed bleeding off sharply so her nose wheel dropped andshe rocked and swayed gradually to a dead stop just short of the brickbuilding which housed the approach and landing beacons,

and the main radar installations.

It was 7.25 a.m. local time and Speedbird 070 was down.

"Well, they are down," intoned Kingston Parker.

"And you can well understand the extreme efforts that were made toprevent them. Their choice of final destination settles one of yourqueries, Peter."

" Peter nodded. "It's got to be political.

I agree, sir."

"And you and I must now face in dreadful reality what we have discussedonly in lofty theory-" Parker held a taper to his pipe and puffed twicebefore going on.

Morally justifiable militancy."

"Again we have to differ, sir."

Peter cut in swiftly. "There is no such thing."

"Is there not?" Parker asked, shaking his head. "What of the Germanofficers killed in the streets of Paris by the French resistance?"

"That was war," Peter exclaimed.

"Perhaps the group that seized 070 believes that they are at war

"With innocent victims?" Peter shot back.

"The Haganah took innocent victims yet what they were fighting for wasright and just." As an Englishman, Dr. Parker you cannot expect me tocondone the murder of British women and children." Peter had stiffenedin his chair.

"No," Parker agreed. "So let us not speak of the MauMau in Kenya,

nor of present-day Ireland then but what of the French Revolution orthe spreading of the Catholic faith by the most terrible persecutionand tortures yet devised by man were those not morally justifiablemilitancy?"

"I would prefer to call it understandable but reprehensible. Terrorismin any form can never be morally justifiable."

Provoked himself, Peter used the word deliberately to provoke and sawthe small lift of Parker's thick bushy eyebrows.

"There is terrorism from above as well as from below." Parker pickedup the word and used it deliberately. "If you define terrorism asextreme physical or physiological coercion used to induce others tosubmit to the will of the terrorist there is the legal terror threat ofthe gallows, the religious terror threat of hell fire, the paternalterror threat of the cane are those more morally justifiable than theaspiration of the weak, the poor, the politically oppressed,

the powerless victims of an unjust society? Is their scream of protestto be strangled-" Peter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Protestoutside the law-"

"Laws are made by man, almost always by the rich and the powerful lawsare changed by men, usually only after militant action. The women'ssuffragette movement, the civil rights campaign in this country-"Parker broke off and chuckled. "I'm sorry, Peter.

Sometimes I confuse myself.

It's often more difficult to be a liberal than it is to be a tyrant. Atleast the tyrant seldom has doubts." Parker lay back in his chair, adismissive gesture. "I propose to leave you in peace for an hour ortwo now. You will want to develop your plans in line with the newdevelopments. But I personally have no doubts now that we are dealingwith politically motivated militants, and not merely a gang ofold-fashioned kidnappers after a fast buck. Of one or " her thing I amcertain: before we see this one through we will be forced to examineour own consciences very closely."

%

Make the second right," said Ingrid quietly, and the Boeing swung offthe grass onto the taxiway. There seemed to be no damage to herlanding gear, but now that she had left her natural element, theaircraft had lost grace and beauty and became lumbering and ungainly.

The girl had never been on the flight deck of a grounded jumbo before,and the height was impressive. It gave her a feeling of detachment, ofbeing invulnerable.

"Now left again," she instructed, and the Boeing turned away from themain airport building towards the southern end of the runway. Theobservation deck of the airport's flat roof was already lined withhundreds of curious spectators, but all activity on the apron wassuspended. The waiting machines and tenders were deserted, not asingle human figure on the tarmac.

"Park there." She pointed ahead to an open area four hundred yardsfrom the nearest building, midway between the terminal and the clusterof service hangars and the main fuel depot. "Stop on theintersection." Grimly silent, Cyril Watkins did as he was ordered, andthen turned in his seat.

"I must call an ambulance to get him off." The co-pilot and astewardess had the flight engineer stretched out on the galley floor,

just beyond the door to the flight deck. They were using linen tablenapkins to bind up the arm and try and staunch the bleeding. Thestench of cordite still lingered and mingled with the taint of freshblood.

"Nobody leaves this aircraft." The girl shook her head.

"He knows too much about us already." My God, woman. He needs medicalattention."

"There are three hundred doctors aboard-" she pointed outindifferently. "The best in the world. Two of them may come forwardand attend to him." She perched sideways on the flight engineer'sblood-splattered desk, and thumbed the internal microphone.

Cyril Watkins noticed even in his outrage that it needed only a singledemonstration and Ingrid was able to work the complicatedcommunications equipment. She was bright and very well trained.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have landed at Johannesburg Airport. We willbe here for a long time perhaps days, even weeks. All our patiencewill be tried, so I must warn you that any disobedience will be mostseverely dealt with.

Already one attempt at resistance has been made and in consequence amember of the crew has been shot and gravely wounded. He may die ofthis wound. We do not want a repetition of this incident.

However, I must again warn you that my officers and I will not hesitateto shoot again, or even to detonate the explosives above your heads ifthe need arises." She paused and watched a moment as two selecteddoctors came forward and knelt on each side of the flight engineer. Hewas shaking like a fever victim with shock, his white shirt splashedand daubed with blood. Her expression showed no remorse, no realconcern, and her voice was calm and light as shement on.

"Two of my officers will now pass down the aisles and they will collectyour passports from you. Please have these documents ready."

Her eyes flicked sideways, as movement caught her eye.

From beyond the service hangars a line of four armoured cars emerged inline ahead. They were the locally manufactured version of the FrenchPanhard with heavily lugged tall tyres, a raked turret and thedisproportionately long barrels of the cannons trained forward.

The armoured vehicles circled cautiously and parked three hundredyards

Out, at the four points wing tips, tail and nose around the aircraft,with the long cannon trained upon her.

The girl watched them disdainfully until one of the doctors pushedhimself in front of her. He was a short, chubby little man, baldingbut brave.

"This man must be taken to a hospital immediately."

"That is out of the question."

"I insist. His life is in danger."

"All our lives are in danger, doctor." She paused and let that makeits effect. "Draw up a list of your requirements. I will see that youget them." They have been down for sixteen hours now and the onlycontact has been a request for medical supplies and for a power link-upto the electrical mains." Kingston Parker had removed his jacket andloosened the knot of his tie, but was showing no other ill effects ofhis vigil.

Peter Stride nodded at the image on the screen. "What have your medicsmade of the supplies? "he asked.

"Looks like a gunshot casualty. Whole blood type AB Positive,

that's rare but one of the crew is cross-matched AB Positive on hisservice record. Ten lit res of plasmalyte B, a blood-giving set andsyringes, morphine and intravenous penicillin, tetanus toxoid all theequipment needed to treat massive physical trauma."

"And they are on mains power?" Peter asked.

"Yes, four hundred people would have suffocated by now without theair-conditioning. The airport authority has laid a cable and pluggedit into the external socket. All the aircraft's support system eventhe galley heating will be gfully functional."

"So we will be able to throw the switch on them at any time." Petermade a note on the pad in front of him. "But no demands yet? Nonegotiator called for?"

"No,

nothing. They seem fully aware of the techniques of bargaining in thistype of situation unlike our friends, the host country. I am afraid weare having a great deal of trouble with the Wyatt Earp mentality-"

Parker paused.

"I'm sorry, Wyatt Earp was one of our frontier marshals-"

"I saw the movie, and read the book, Peter answered tartly.

"Well, the South Africans are itching to storm the aircraft, and bothour ambassador and yours are hard pressed to restrain them. They areall set to kick the doors of the saloon open and rush in with six-gunsblazing. They must also have seen the movie." Peter felt the crawl ofhorror down his spine. "That would be a certain disaster," he saidquickly. "These people are running a tight operation."

"We crossed the Zambesi River seven minutes ago." Peter glancedsideways through the perspex bubble window, but the ground was obscuredby haze and cumulus cloud. "We have another two hours ten minutes tofly but my support section is three hours forty behind us."

"All right, Peter. I will get back onto them. The South African

Government convened a full cabinet meeting, and both our ambassadorsare sitting in as observers and advisers. I think I am going to beobliged to tell them about the existence of Atlas." He paused amoment.

"Here at last we are seeing Atlas justified, Peter. A single unit,

cutting across all national considerations, able -to act swiftly andindependently. I think you should know that I have already obtainedthe agreement of the President and of your Prime Minister tocondition

Delta at my discretion." Condition Delta was the kill decision.

but again I emphasize that I will implement Delta only as a lastpossible resort. I want to hear and consider the demands first, and inthat respect we are open to negotiation fully open-" Parker went onspeaking, and Peter Stride shifted slightly, dropping his chin into thecup of his hand to hide his irritation. They were into an area ofdispute now and once again Peter had to voice disagreement.

"Every time you let a militant walk away from a strike you immediatelycreate the conditions for further strikes, to free the captive."

"I have the clearance for condition Delta," Parker reiterated with atrace of acid in his tone now, "but I am making it clear that it willbe used only with the greatest discretion.

We are not an assassination unit, General Stride." Parker nodded to anassistant off-screen. "I am going through to the South Africans now toexplain Atlas." The image receded into darkness.

Peter Stride leapt up abruptly and tried to pace the narrow aislebetween the seats, but there was insufficient headroom for his tallframe and he flung himself angrily into the seat again.

Kingston Parker stood up from his communications desk in the outeroffice of his suite in the west wing of the Pentagon. The twocommunications technicians scurried out of his way and his personalsecretary opened the door to his inner office.

He moved with peculiar grace for such a large man, and there was noexcess weight on his frame, his big heavy bones lean of flesh. Hisclothes were of fine cloth, well cut the best that Fifth Avenue couldoffer but they were worn almost to the point of shoddiness, thebutton-down collar slightly frayed, the Italian shoes scuffed at thetoes as though material trappings counted not at all with him.

Nevertheless he wore them with a certain unconscious panache, and helooked ten years younger than his fifty.

only a few silver strands in the thick bushy mane of hair.

The inner office was Spartan in its furnishings, all of it U.S.

Government issue, utilitarian and impersonal, only the books thatfilled every shelf and the grand piano were his own. The piano was a

Bechstein grand and much too large for the room. Parker ran his righthand lightly across the keyboard as he passed it but he went on to thedesk.

He dropped into the swivel chair and shuffled through the dozenintelligence folders on his desk. Each of them contained the latestcomputer print-outs that he had requested. There were personalhistories, appraisals, and character studies of all the personalitiesthat had so far become involved in the taking of Speedbird 070.

Both the ambassadors their pink files signified the best securityratings, and were marked "Heads of Departments only'. Four other filesin lower echelon green were devoted to the South African

Government personalities with decision-making capabilities in anemergency. The thickest file was that of the South African Prime

Minister and once again Parker noted wryly that the man had beenimprisoned by the pro-British government of General Jan Smuts during

World War II as a militant opponent of his country's involvement inthat war. He wondered just how much sympathy he would have for othermilitants now.

There were files for the South African Ministers of Defence and ofjustice, and still slimmer green files for the Commissioner of Policeand for the Assistant Commissioner who had been given theresponsibility of handling the emergency. Of them all only the Prime

Minister emerged as a distinct personality a powerful bulldog figure,

not a man easily influenced or dissuaded, and instinctively Kingston

Parker recognized that ultimate authority rested here.

There was one other pink file at the bottom of the considerable stack,so well handled that the cardboard cover was splitting at the hinge.The original print-out in this file had been requisitioned two yearspreviously, with quarterly up-dates since that time.

"STRIDE PETER CHARLES" it was headed and reclassified "Head of

Atlas only'.

A Kingston Parker could probably have recited its contents by heart buthe untied the ribbons now, and opened it in his lap.

Puffing deliberately at his pipe he began to turn slowly through theloose pages.

There were the bare bones of the subject's life. Born 1939, one oftwin war-time babies of a military family, his father killed in actionthree years later when the armoured brigade of guards he commanded wasoverrun by one of Erwin Rommel's devastating drives across the desertsof North Africa. The elder twin brother had inherited the baronetcyand Peter followed the well-travelled family course, Harrow andSandhurst, where he must have disconcerted the family by his academicbrilliance and his reluctance to participate in team sports preferringthe loner activities of golf and tennis and long-distance running.

Kingston Parker pondered that a moment. They were pointers to theman's character that had disconcerted him as well. Parker had theintellectual's generalized contempt for the military, and he would havepreferred a man who conformed more closely to his ideal of thebrass-headed soldier.

Yet when the young Stride had entered his father's regiment, it seemedthat the exceptional intelligence had been diverted into conventionalchannels and the preference for independent thought and action held incheck, if not put aside completely until his regiment was sent toCyprus at the height of the unrest in that country. Within a week ofarrival the young Stride had been seconded, with his commandingofficer's enthusiastic approval, to central army intelligence. Perhapsthe commanding officer had already become aware of the problemsinvolved in harbouring a wonder-boy in the tradition-bound portals ofhis officers" mess.

For once the military had made a logical, if not an outright brilliant,choice. Stride in the sixteen years since then had not made a singlemistake, apart from the marriage which had ended in divorce within twoyears. Had he remained with his regiment that might have affected hiscareer but since Cyprus Stride's progress had been as unconventionaland meteoric as his brain.

In a dozen different and difficult assignments since then, he had honedhis gifts and developed new talents; rising against the trend ofreduced British expenditure on defence, he had reached staff rankbefore thirty years of age.

At NATO Headquarters he had made powerful friends and admirers on bothsides of the Atlantic, and at the end of his three-year term in

Brussels he had been promoted to major-general and been transferred tohead British Intelligence in Ireland, bringing his own particulardedication and flair to the job.

A great deal of the credit for containing the sweep of Irish terrorismthrough Britain was his, and his in-depth study of the urban guerrillaand the mind of the militant, although classified depart mentally wasprobably the definitive work on the subject.

The Atlas concept was first proposed in this study, and so it was thatStride had been on the short list to head the project. It seemedcertain the appointment would be made the Americans had been impressedwith his study and his friends from NATO had not forgotten him. Hisappointment was approved in principle. Then at the last moment therehad developed sudden and intense opposition to the appointment of aprofessional soldier to head such a sensitive agency.

The opposition had come from both Whitehall and Washingtonsimultaneously, and had prevailed.

Kingston Parker knocked out his pipe, and carried the file across theroom and laid it open on the music rack of the piano. He seatedhimself at the keyboard and, still M studying the printout sheets,

began to play.

The stream of music, the lovely ethereal strains of Liszt, did notinterrupt his thoughts but seemed to buoy them brightly upwards.

Parker had not wanted Stride, had considered from the very first thathe was dangerous, sensing in him ambitions and motivations which wouldbe difficult to control. Parker would have preferred his own nomineesTanner, who now commanded the Mercury arm of Atlas, or Colin

Noble and had expected that Stride would have declined a command so farbelow his capability.

However, Stride had accepted the lesser appointment and headed

Thor. Parker suspected that there was unusual motivation in this, andhad made every effort to study the man at first hand. On five separateoccasions he had ordered Stride to Washington, and focused upon him thefull strength of his charisma and personality. He had even invited himto stay with him in his New York home, spending many hours with him indeep far-ranging discussions from which he had developed a prudentrespect for the man's mind, but had been able to reach no firmconclusions as to his future in Atlas.

Parker turned a page of the character appraisal. When he looked forthe weakness in an opponent, Parker had long ago learned to start atthe groin. With this man there was no evidence of any unnatural sexualleanings. Certainly he was not homosexual, if anything too much theopposite.

There had been at least a dozen significant liaisons with the oppositesex since his divorce. However, all of these had been discreet anddignified. Although three of the ladies had been married,

none of them were the wives of his subordinates in the armedservices,

nor of brother officers or of men who might be able to adversely affecthis career.

The women he chose all had certain qualities in common they all tendedto be tall, intelligent and successful. One was a journalist who hadher own syndicated column, another was a former fashion model who nowdesigned and marketed her clothes through her own prestigious outletsin London and on the continent. Then there was an actress who was aleading female member of the Royal Shakespeare Company Parker skimmedthe list impatiently, for Parker himself had no sympathy nor patiencewith a man who succumbed to the dictates of his body.

Parker had trained himself to be totally celibate, channelling all hissexual energies into pursuits of the mind, while this man Stride,

on the other hand, was not above conducting two or three of hisliaisons concurrently.

Parker moved on to the second area of weakness. Stride's inheritancehad been decimated by the punitive British death duties yet his privateincome even after savage aviation was still a little over twentythousand pounds sterling a year, and when this was added to his salaryand privileges as a general officer, it enabled him to live in goodstyle. He could even indulge in the mild extravagance of collectingrare books and, Parker observed acidly, the greater extravagance ofcollecting rare ladies.

However, there was no trace of any illicit hoard no Swiss bankaccounts, no deposits of gold bullion, no foreign properties, no sharesin offshore companies held by nominees and Parker had searcheddiligently for them, for they would have indicated payments received,

perhaps from foreign governments. A man like Stride had much tosell,

at prices he could set himself but it seemed he had not done so.

Stride did not smoke; Parker removed the old black briar from his ownmouth, regarded it affectionately for a moment. It was his oneindulgence, a harmless one despite what the surgeon-general of the

United States had determined, and he took the stem firmly between histeeth again.

Stride took alcohol in moderation and was considered knowledgeable onthe subject of wine. He raced occasion ally, more as a social outingthan as a serious punter, and the odd fifty pounds he could wellafford. There was no evidence of other gambling. However, he did nothunt, nor did he shoot traditional pursuits of the English gentleman.

Perhaps he had moral objections to blood sports, Parker thought,

though it seemed unlikely, for Stride was a superlative marksman withrifle, shotgun and pistol. He had represented Britain at the Munich

Olympics as a pistol shot, winning a gold in the fifty metre class, andhe spent at least an hour every day on the range.

Parker turned to the page of the print-out that gave the man's medicalhistory. He must be superbly fit as well his body weight at the age ofthirty-nine was one pound less than it had been at twenty-one, and hestill trained like a front-line soldier. Parker noticed that he hadlogged sixteen parachute jumps the previous month.

Since joining Atlas he had no opportunity or time for golf, though whenhe was with NATO Stride had played off a handicap of three.

Parker closed the folder and played on softly, but neither the sensualpolished feel of cool ivory beneath his fingertips nor the achinglylovely lilt of the music could dispel his sense of disquiet.

Exhaustive as the report was, yet it left unanswered questions, likewhy Stride had downgraded himself to accept the command of Thor he wasnot the kind of man who acted ill-advisedly. Yet the most hauntingquestions that nagged at Parker were just how strong were his qualitiesof resilience and independent thought, just how strongly was he drivenby his ambitions and that penetrating intellect and just how great athreat such a man would present to the evolution of Atlas into itsultimate role.

"Doctor Parker, sir," his assistant knocked lightly and entered,

"there are new developments." Parker sighed softly. "I'm coming," hesaid, and let the last sad and beautiful notes fall from his long,

powerful fingers before he stood up.

The Hawker slid almost silently down the sky. The pilot had closeddown power at five thousand feet and made his final approach withouttouching the throttles again. He was ten knots above the stall as hepassed over the boundary fence and he touched down twenty feet beyondthe chevron markings of the threshold of runway One five, instantlyapplying maximum safe braking. One five was the secondary cross-windrunway and the Hawker's roll-out was so short that every part of theapproach and landing had been screened by the buildings of the mainairport terminal from where Speedbird 070 stood at the southernintersection of the main taxiway.

The pilot swung the Hawker through 360" and backtracked sedately uprunway 15, using just enough power to keep her rolling.

"They've prepared a slot for us, with hook up to the electrical mainsat the north-" Peter broke off as he saw the apron marshal waving themin with the bats, and beyond him a tight group of four men waiting.Three of them wore camouflage battle dress and the other the trim blueuniform, cap and gold insignia of a senior South African policeofficer.

The uniformed officer was the first to greet Peter as he came down theHawker's fold-out air-stairs.

"Prinsloo." He shook hands. "Lieutenant-General." He ranked

Peter, but it was a police, not a military appointment. He was astocky man, with steel-rimmed spectacles, a little paunchy, and notless than fifty-five years of age. He had the rather heavy features,

the fleshiness of jowl and lips, that Peter had noticed so often in

Belgian and Dutch peasants during his NATO tour in the Netherlands.

A

man of the earth, dour and conservative.

"Let me introduce Commandant Boonzaier." This was a military rank,

equivalent to that of colonel, and he was a younger man, but with thesame thick accent and his features cast in the same mould. A tallman,

however, only an inch or so shorter than Peter but both of the South

Africans were suspicious and resentful, and the reason was immediatelyapparent.

"I have been instructed to take my orders from you, General," and therewas a subtle shift of position, the two officers ranging themselvesbeside Peter, but facing each other, and he was aware instantly thatnot all the hostility was directed at him. There had been frictionbetween police and military already and the basic value of Atlas wasunderlined yet again.

A single clean-cut line of command and of responsibility was absolutelyessential Peter's mind flicked back to the shoot-out at

Larnaca Airport between Egyptian commandos and Cypriot nationalguardsmen, from which the hijackers of the grounded jet emergedunscathed while the airfield was littered with the burning wreckage ofthe Egyptian transport aircraft and dozens of dead and dying Cypriotsand Egyptians.

The first principle of terrorist strategy was to strike at the pointwhere national responsibilities were blurred. Atlas cut throughthat.

"Thank you." Peter accepted command without flaunting it. "My backupteam will land in just over three hours" time. We will, of course, useforce only as a last resort but if it comes to that, I

will use exclusively Atlas personnel in any counter-strike. I wouldlike to make that quite clear immediately." And he saw the line of thesoldier's mouth harden with disappointment.

"My men are the elite "It's a British aircraft, most of the hostagesare British or American nationals it's a political decision,

Colonel. But I would value your help in other areas." Peter turnedhim aside tactfully.

"Firstly, I want you to suggest a position where I can place mysurveillance equipment and then we will go over the ground together."

Peter had no difficulty selecting his forward observation post. Theservice manager's roomy, sparsely furnished office on the third floorof the terminal building overlooked the entire service area and thesouthern portion of the taxiway where the Boeing stood.

The windows had been left open when the offices were evacuated, sothere was no need to change the external appearance of the room.

The overhang of the observation balcony on the floor above shaded theinterior, and the office was deep enough to ensure that an observer outthere in the bright glare of sunshine would not be able to see into theroom, even with a powerful lens. The militants would expectsurveillance from the glass control tower high above any deception,

however trivial, was worth while.

The surveillance equipment was lightweight and compact, the televisionnm eras were neither of them bigger than a super 8 mm. home moviecamera and a man could carry in one hand both of the aluminiumextension tripods.

However, the cameras could zoom to 800 mm. focal length, and thenrepeated on the screens of the command console in the cabin of the

Hawker, while the image was simultaneously stored on videotape.

The audio intensifier was more bulky, but no heavier. It had afour-foot dish antenna, with the sound collector in the centre.

The telescopic sight could aim the intensifier at a sound source withthe accuracy of a sniper's rifle. It could focus on the lips of ahuman being at eight hundred yards" distance and clearly record normalconversation at that range, passing sound directly to the commandconsole and at the same time storing it on the big magnetic tapespools.

Two of Peter's communications team were posted here, with a plentifulsupply of coffee and doughnuts, and Peter, accompanied by the

South African colonel and his staff, went up in the elevator to theglass house of the control tower.

from the air traffic control tower there was an unobstructed viewacross the airfield and over the apron and service areas around theterminal. The observation platform below the tower had been cleared ofall but military personnel.

I have road blocks at all the main entrances to the airfield.

Only passengers with confirmed reservations and current tickets arebeing allowed through, and we are using only the northern section ofthe terminal for traffic." Peter nodded and turned to the seniorcontroller. "What is the state of your traffic pattern?"

"We have refused clearance to all private flights, incoming anddeparting. All domestic scheduled flights have been re-routed to

Lanseria and Germiston airports, and we are landing and despatchingonly international scheduled flights but the backlog has delayeddepartures by three hours."

"What separation are you observing from

070?" Peter asked.

"Fortunately the international departures terminal is the farthest fromthe aircraft, and we are not using the taxiways or the apron of thesouthern section. As you see, we have cleared the entire area exceptfor those three S.A. Airways aircraft which are undergoing overhaul andservicing, there are no other aircraft within a thousand yards of

07O."

"I may have to freeze all traffic, if-" Peter paused, "or should I say,when we have an escalation."

"Very well, sir."

"In the meantime, you may continue as you are at present." Peterlifted his binoculars and once again very carefully examined the hugeBoeing.

It stood in stately isolation, silent and seemingly abandoned. Thebright, almost gaudy marking gave her a carnival air.

Red and blue and crisp sparkling white in the brilliant sunlight of thehigh veld She was parked fully broadside to the tower, and all herhatches and doors were still armed and locked.

Peter traversed slowly along the line of perspex windows down thelength of the fuselage but over each of them the sunshades had beenfirmly closed from the interior, turning them into the multiple eyes ofa blinded insect.

Peter lifted his scrutiny slightly onto the windshield and side panelsof the flight deck. These again had been screened with blankets, hungover them from inside, completely thwarting any glimpse of the crew ortheir captors and certainly preventing a shot into the flight deck,although the range from the nearest corner of the terminal was not morethan four hundred yards, and with the new laser sights one of Thor'strained snipers could pick through which eye of the human head he wouldput a bullet.

Snaking across the open tarmac of the taxiway was the thin blackelectrical cable that connected the aircraft to the mains supply, along, vulnerable umbilical cord. Peter studied it thoughtfully, beforeturning his attention to the four Panhard armoured cars. A littlefrown of irritation crossed his forehead.

"Colonel, please recall those vehicles." He tried not to let theirritation come through in his tone. "With the turrets battened down,your crews will be roasting like Christmas geese

"General, I feel it my duty-" Boonzaier began, and Peter lowered theglasses and smiled. It was a charming, friendly grin that took the manby surprise, after the previous stern set of features and yet the eyeswere devoid of humour, cracking blue and hard in the craggy granite ofthe face.

"I want to defuse the atmosphere as much as possible." The necessityto explain irked Peter, but he maintained the smile.

"Somebody with four great cannons aimed at him is more likely to make abad decision, and pull the trigger himself. You may keep them in closesupport, but get them out of sight into the terminal car park, and letyour men rest." With little grace the colonel passed the order overthe walkie-talkie on his belt, and as the vehicles started up andslowly pulled away behind the line of hangars, Peter went onremorselessly.

"How many men have you got deployed?" He pointed to the line ofsoldiers along the parapet of the observation balcony, and then to theheads visible as specks between the soaring blue of the African sky andthe silhouette of the service hangars.

"Two hundred and thirty."

"Pull them out," Peter instructed, "and let the occupants of theaircraft see them go."

"All of them?"

incredulously.

"All of them," Peter agreed, and now the smile was wolfish, "andquickly, please, colonel." The man was learning swiftly, and he liftedthe miniaturized walkie-talkie to his mouth again. There were a fewmoments of scurrying and confusion among the troops on the observationdeck below before they could be formed up and marched away in file.

Their steel helmets, like a bobbing line of button mushrooms, and themuzzles of their slung weapons would show above the parapet, and wouldbe clearly visible to an observer in the Boeing.

"If you treat these people, these animals-" the colonel's voice waschoked slightly with frustration, if you treat them soft-" Peter knewexactly what was coming, "and if you keep waving guns in their faces,you will keep them alert and on their toes, Colonel. Let them settledown a little and relax, let them get very confident." He spokewithout lowering the binoculars. With a soldier's eye for ground hewas picking the site for his four snipers. There was little chancethat he would be able to use them they would have to take out everysingle one of the enemy at the same instant but a remote chance mightjust offer itself, and he decided to place one gun on the servicehangar roof, there was a large ventilator which could be pierced andwould command the port side of the aircraft, two guns to cover theflight deck from both sides he could use the drainage ditch down theedge of the main runway to get a man into the small hut that housed theapproach radar and ILS beacons. The hut was in the enemy's rear. Theymight not expect fire from that quarter. point by point from hismental checklist Peter planned his dispositions, scribbling hisdecisions into the small leather-covered notebook, poring over thelarge-scale map of the airport, converting gradients and angles intofields of fire, measuring "ground to cover" and "time to target" for anassault force launched from the nearest vantage points, twisting eachproblem and evaluating it, striving for novel solutions to each, tryingto think ahead of an enemy that was still faceless and infinitelymenacing.

It took him an hour of hard work before he was satisfied.

Now he could pass his decisions to Colin Noble on board the incomingHerc, and within four minutes of the big landing wheels hitting tarmachis highly trained team with their complex talents and skills would bein position.

Peter straightened up from the map and tucked the notebook under theflap of his button-down breast pocket.

Once again he scrutinized every inch of the silent, battened-downaircraft through his glasses but this time he allowed himself theluxury of gut emotion.

He felt the anger and the hatred rise from some hidden depth of hissoul and flush his blood and tighten the muscles of his belly andthighs.

Once again he was confronted by the many-headed monster. It crouchedout there in ambush, waiting for him as it had so often before.

He remembered suddenly the shards of splintered glass littering thecobbles of a Belfast street and glittering like diamond chips in thearc lamps, the smell of explosives and blood thick in the air.

He remembered the body of a young woman lying in the gutted interior ofa fashionable London restaurant. Her lovely young body stripped by theblast of all but a flimsy pearl-coloured pair of French lace panties.

He remembered the smell of a family, father, mother and three smallchildren, burning in the interior of their saloon car, the bodiesblackening and twisting in a slow macabre ballet as the flames scorchedthem. Peter had not been able to eat pork since that day.

He remembered the frightened eyes of a child, through a mask of blood,a dismembered arm lying beside her, the pale fingers still clutching agrubby little rag doll.

The images flashed in disjointed sequences across his memory,

feeding his hatred until it pricked and stung behind his eyes and hehad to lower the binoculars and wipe his eyes with the back of hishand.

It was the same enemy that he had hunted before, but his instinctswarned him that it had grown even stronger and more inhuman since lasthe had met and fought it. He tried to suppress the hatred now, lest itcloud his judgement, lest it handicap him during the difficult hoursand days that he knew lay ahead but it was too powerful, had been toolong nurtured.

He recognized that hatred was the enemy's vice, that from it sprangtheir twisted philosophy and their monstrous actions, and that todescend to hatred was to descend to their sub-human levels yet stillthe hatred persisted.

Peter Stride understood clearly that his hatred was not only for theghastly death and mutilation that he had witnessed so often. More itwas fostered by the threat that he recognized to an entire society andits civilized rule of law. If this evil should be allowed to triumph,then in the future laws would be made by the wild-eyed revolutionary,with a gun in his fist the world would be run by the destroyers insteadof the builders, and Peter Stride hated that possibility more even thanthe violence and the blood, and those he hated as a soldier hates. Foronly a soldier truly knows the horror of war.

His soldier's instinct now was to immediately engage the enemy anddestroy him but the scholar and philosopher in him warned that this wasnot the moment, and with an enormous effort of will he held thatfighting man's instinct in check.

Yet still he was deeply aware that it was for this moment, for thisconfrontation of the forces of evil, that he had jeopardized his wholecareer.

When command of Atlas had been plucked away and a political appointeenamed in his place, Peter should have declined the offer of a lesserposition in Atlas. There were other avenues open to him, but insteadhe had elected to stay with the project and he hoped that nobody hadguessed at the resentment he felt. God knows, Kingston

Parker had no cause for complaint since then. There was no harderworking officer on Atlas, and his loyalty had been tested more thanonce.

Now all that seemed worth while, and the moment for which he had workedhad arrived. The enemy waited For him out there on the burning tarmacunder an African sun, not on a soft green island in the rain nor in thegrimy streets of a crowded city but still it was the same old enemy,and Peter knew his time would come.

His communications technicians had Colin Noble on the main screen asPeter ducked into the Hawker's cabin that was now his commandheadquarters, and settled into his padded seat. On the top rightscreen was a panoramic view of the southern terminal area, with the

Boeing squatting like a brooding eagle upon its nest in the centre ofthe shot. On the next screen beside it was a blow-up through the

800 mm. zoom lens of the Boeing's flight deck. So crisp was thedetail that Peter could read the maker's name on the tab of the blanketthat screened the windshield. The third small screen held a full shotof the interior of the air traffic control tower. In the foregroundthe controllers in shirt sleeves sitting over the radar repeaters, andbeyond them through the floor to ceiling windows still another view ofthe Boeing. All these were being shot through the cameras installed anhour earlier in the terminal building. The remaining small screen wasblank, and Colin Noble's homely, humorous face filled the mainscreen.

"Now if only it had been the cavalry instead of the U.S. Marines, Petersaid, you'd have been here yesterday-"

"What's your hurry, pal. Doesn't look like the party has started yet."Colin grinned at him from the screen and pushed his baseball cap to theback of his head.

"We've picked up a good wind one hour twenty-two minutes to flynow,"Colin told him.

"Right, let's get down to it," Peter said, and he began his briefing,going carefully over the field notes he had taken.

When he wanted to emphasize a point, Peter called for a change of shotfrom his cameramen, and they zoomed in or panned to his instruction,picking up the radar shed or the service hangar ventilator where Peterwas siting his snipers.

The image was repeated not only on the command console but in thecavernous body of the approaching Hercules so that the men who would becalled to occupy those positions could study them now and preparethemselves thoroughly for the moment. The same images were hurledacross the stratosphere to the circling satellite and from therebounced down to appear, only slightly distorted, on the screens of

Atlas Command in the west wing of the Pentagon. Sagging like an oldlion in his armchair, Kingston Parker followed every word of thebriefing, rousing himself only when a long telex message was passed tohim by his assistant, then he nodded a command to have his owntelevised image superimposed on Peter's command console.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Peter, but we've got a useful scrap here.Assuming that the militant group boarded 070 at Malic, we asked theSeychelles Police to run a check on all joining passengers. There werefifteen of them, ten of whom were Seychelles residents. A localmerchant and his wife, and eight unaccompanied children between nineand fourteen years of age. They are the children of expatriate civilservants employed on contract by the Seychelles (3overnment, returningto schools in England for the new term." Peter felt the weight ofdread bring down upon him like a physical burden. Children, the younglives seemed somehow more important, somehow more vulnerable. ButParker was reading from the telex flimsy in his left hand, the rightscratching the back of his neck with the stem of his pipe.

"There is one British businessman, Shell Oil Company, and well -knownon the island, and there are four tourists, an American, a

Frenchman and two Germans. These last four appeared to be travellingin a group, the immigration and security officers remember them well.

Frenchman. The police have run a back check on the four. They stayedtwo weeks at the Reef Hotel outside Victoria, the women in one doubleroom and the two men in another. They spent most of the time swimmingand sunbathing until five days ago when a small ocean-going yachtcalled at Victoria. Thirty-five foot, single-hander around theworld,

skippered by another American. The four spent time on board her everyday of her stay, and the yacht sailed twenty-faut hours before thedeparture of the 07O."

"If the yacht delivered their arms and munitions, then this operationhas been planned for a long time," Peter pondered, land damn wellplanned." Peter felt the tingling flush of his blood again, the formof the enemy was taking shape now, the outline of the beast becomingclearer, and always it was uglier and more menacing.

"You have run the names through the computer?" he asked.

"Nothing," Parker nodded. "Either there is no intelligence record ofthem, or the names and passports are false-" He broke off as there wassudden activity on the screen that monitored the air traffic controltower, and another voice boomed out of the secondary speaker;

the volume was set too high, and the technician at the control boardadjusted it swiftly. It was a female voice, a fresh, clear young voicespeaking English with the lilt and inflexion of the west coast of

America in it.

"Jan Smuts tower, this is the officer commanding the task force of theAction Commando for Human Rights that has control of Speedbird 070.

Stand by to copy a message."

"Contact!" Peter breathed. "Contact at last." On the small screenColin Noble grinned and rolled his cheroot expertly from one side ofhis mouth to the other.

"The party has begun," he announced, but there was the razor edge inhis voice not entirely concealed by his jocular tone.

The three-man crew had been moved back from the flight deck, and wereheld in the first class seats vacated by the group of four.

Ingrid had made the cockpit of the Boeing her headquarters, and sheworked swiftly through the pile of passports, filling in the name andnationality of each passenger on the seating plan spread before her.

The door to the galley was open and except for the hum of theair-conditioning, the huge aircraft was peculiarly silent.

Conversation in the cabins was prohibited, and the aisles werepatrolled by the red-shirted commandos to enforce this edict.

They also ordered the use of the toilets: a passenger must return tohis seat before another was allowed to rise. The toilet doors had toremain open during use, so that the commandos could check at aglance.

Despite the silence, there was a crackling atmosphere of tension downthe full length of the cabin. Very few of the passengers, mostly thechildren, were asleep, but the others sat in rigid rows, their facestaut and strained watching their captors with a mixture of hatred andof fear.

Henri, the Frenchman, slipped into the cockpit.

"They are pulling back the armoured cars," he said. He was slim,

with a very youthful face and dreaming poet's eyes. He had grown adrooping blond gunfighter's mustache, but the effect was incongruous.

Ingrid looked up at him. "You are so nervous," She shook her head. "itwill all be all right."

"I am not nervous," he answered her stiffly.

She chuckled fondly, and reached up to touch his face.

"I did not mean it as an insult." She pulled his face down and kissedhim, thrusting her tongue deeply into his mouth.

"You have proved your courage often," she murmured.

He dropped his pistol onto the desk with a clatter and reached for her.The top three buttons of her red cotton shirt were unfastened,

and she let him grope and find her breasts.

They were heavy and pointed and his breathing went ragged as he teasedout her nipples. They hardened erect like jelly beans but when hereached down with his free hand for the zipper of her shorts,

she pushed him away roughly.

"Later," she told him brusquely, "when this is over. Now get back intothe cabin." And she leaned forward and lifted a corner of the blanketthat screened the side window of the cockpit. The sunlight was verybright but her eyes adjusted swiftly and she saw the row of helmetedheads above the parapet of the observation deck. So they were pullingback the troops as well. It was nearly time to begin talking but shewould let them stew in their own juice just a little longer.

She stood up, buttoned her shirt and adjusted the camera on its straparound her neck, paused in the galley to rearrange the shiny mass ofgolden hair and then walked slowly back down the full length of thecentral aisle, pausing to adjust the blanket over a sleeping child,

to listen attentively to the complaints of the pregnant wife of the

Texan neurosurgeon.

"You and the children will be the first off this plane I promise you."When she reached the prone body of the flight engineer, she kneltbeside him.

"How is he?"

"He is sleeping now. I shot him full of morphine,"

the fat little doctor muttered, not looking at her, so she could notread the hatred in his expression. The injured arm was elevated tocontrol the bleeding, sticking up stiffly in its cocoon of pressurebandages, oddly foreshortened with the bright ooze of blood through thedressing.

"You are doing good-" She touched his arm. "Thank you." And now heglanced at her startled, and she smiled such a radiant lovely smile,

that he began to melt.

"Is that your wife?" Ingrid dropped her voice, so that he alone couldhear and he nodded, glancing at the plump little Jewish woman in thenearest seat. "I will see she is amongst the first to leave,"

she murmured, and his gratitude was pathetic. She stood and went ondown the aircraft.

The red-shirted German stood at the head of the tourist cabin,

beside the curtained entrance to the second galley.

He had the intense drawn face of a religious zealot, dark burning eyes,long black hair falling almost to his shoulders a white scar twistedthe corner of his upper lip into a perpetual smirk.

"Kurt, everything is all right?" she asked in German.

"They are complaining of hunger."

"We will feed them in another two hours but not as much as theyexpect-" and she ran a contemptuous glance down the cabin. "Fat," shesaid quietly, "big fat bourgeoisie pigs," and she stepped through thecurtains into the galley and looked at him in invitation. He followedher immediately, drawing the curtains behind them.

"Where is Karen?" Ingrid asked, as he unbuckled his belt.

She needed it very badly, the excitement and the blood had inflamedher.

"She is resting at the back of the cabin." Ingrid slipped the buttonthat held the front of her shorts together and drew down the zipper."All right Kurt," she whispered huskily, "but quickly, very quickly."Ingrid sat in the flight engineer's seat; at her shoulder stood thedark-haired girl. She wore the cartridge belt across the shoulder ofher bright red shirt, like a bandolier and she carried the big uglypistol on her hip.

Ingrid held the microphone to her lips, and combed the fingers of herother hand through the thick golden tangle of her tresses as she spoke.One hundred and ninety-eight British subjects. One hundred andforty-six American nationals-" She was reading the list of hercaptives. "There are one hundred and twenty-two women on board, andtwenty-six children under the age of sixteen years." She had beenspeaking for nearly five minutes and now she broke off and shifted inher seat, turning to smile at Karen over her shoulder. The darkhairedgirl smiled in return and reached across to caress the fine mass ofgolden hair with a narrow bony hand, before letting it drop back to herside.

"We have copied your last transmission."

"Call me Ingrid." She spoke into the mike with the smile turning intoa wicked grin. There was a moment's silence as the controller in thetower recovered from his shock.

"Roger, Ingrid. Do you have any further messages for us?"

"Affirmative, Tower. As this is a British aircraft and as threehundred and forty-four of my passengers are either British orAmerican,

I want a spokesman, representing the embassies of those countries. I

want him here in two hours" time to hear my terms for the release ofpassengers."

"Stand by, Ingrid. We will be back to you immediately we have beenable to contact the ambassadors."

Tell them I want a man here in two hours otherwise I am going to beforced to put down the first hostage." Peter Stride was stripped downto a pair of bathing trunks, and he wore only canvas sneakers on hisfeet.

Ingrid had insisted on a face-to-face meeting, and Peter had welcomedthe opportunity to assess at close range.

"We'll be covering you every inch of the way there and back,"

Colin Noble told Peter, fussing over him like a coach over his fighterbefore the gong. "I'm handling the gunners, personally." The sniperswere armed with specially hand-built .222 magnums with accurizedbarrels that threw small light bullets with tremendous velocity andstriking power. The ammunition was match-grade, each round lovinglyhand finished and polished. The infra-red telescopic sights werereadily interchangeable with the laser sights, making the weapon deadlyaccurate either in daylight or at night. The bullet had a clean, flattrajectory up to seven hundred yards.

They were perfectly designed man-killers, precision weapons thatreduced the danger to bystanders or hostages. The light bullet wouldslam a man down with savage force, as though he had been hit by acharging rhinoceros, but it would break up in his body, and notover-penetrate to kill beyond the target.

You'll get pictures that will win you an Oscar my personal guarantee."Colin checked his wristwatch. "Time to go. Don't keep the ladywaiting." He punched Peter's shoulder lightly.

"Hang loose," he said, and Peter walked out into the sunshine,

lifting both hands above his shoulders, palms open, fingers extended.

The silence was as oppressive as the dry fierce heat, but it wasintentional. Peter had frozen all air traffic, and had ordered theshut down of all machinery in the entire terminal area. He did notwant any interference with his sound equipment.

There was only the sound of his own footfalls, and he stepped outbriskly but still it was the longest walk of his life, and the closerhe got to the aircraft, the higher it towered above him. He knew thathe had been required to strip almost naked, not only to ensure that hecarried no weapons, but to place him at a disadvantage to make him feelill at ease, vulnerable. It was an old trick the Gestapo alwaysstripped the victim for an interrogation so he held himself proud andtall, pleased that his body was so lean and hard and muscled like anathlete's. He would have hated to drag a big, pendulous gut andsagging old-man's tits across those four hundred yards.

He was half-way there when the forward door, just behind the cockpit,slid back and a group of figures appeared in the square opening. Henarrowed his eyes: there were two uniformed figures, no three BritishAirways uniforms, the two pilots and between them the shorter slimmerfeminine figure of a stewardess.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, but beyond them he could make outanother head, a blonde head but the angle and the light were againsthim.

Closer, he saw that the older pilot was on the right,

short-cropped grey curls, ruddy round face that would be Watkins, thecommander. He was a good man, Peter had studied his service record.

He ignored the co-pilot and stewardess and strained for a glimpse ofthe figure beyond them, but it was only when he stopped directly belowthe open hatch that she moved to let him get a clear view of herface.

Peter was startled by the loveliness of that golden head, by the smoothgloss of young sun polished skin and the thundering innocence ofwide-set, steady, green eyes for a moment he could not believe she wasone of them, then she spoke.

"I am Ingrid," she said. Some of the most poisonous flowers are theloveliest, he thought.

"I am the accredited negotiator for the British and American

Governments," he said, and switched his gaze to the beefy red face of

Watkins. "How many members of your commando are aboard? "he asked.

"No questions!" Ingrid snapped fiercely, and Cyril Watkins extendedfour fingers of his right hand down his thigh without a change ofexpression.

It was vital confirmation of what they already suspected, and

Peter felt a rush of gratitude towards the pilot.

"Before we discuss your terms, Peter said, "and out of common humanity,I would like to arrange for the wellbeing and comfort of yourhostages."

"They are well cared for."

"Do you need food or drinking water?" The girl threw back her head andlaughed delightedly.

"So you can dope it with laxative and have us knee-deep in shit?

Stink us out, hey?" Peter did not pursue it. The doped trays hadalready been prepared by his doctor"

"You have a gunshot casualty on board?"

"There are no wounded aboard," the girl denied flatly, cutting herlaughter short but Watkins made the circular affirmative sign of thumband forefinger, effectively contradicting her, and Peter noticed thespots of dried blood on the sleeves of his white shirt. "That'senough," Ingrid warned Peter. "Ask one more question and we'll breakoff-"

"All right," Peter agreed quickly. "No more questions."

"The objective of this commando is the ultimate downfall of thebrutally fascist, inhuman, neo-imperialistic regime that holds thisland in abject slavery and misery denying the great majority of theworkers and the proletariat their basic rights as human beings." Andthat,

thought Peter bitterly, even though it's couched in the garbled jargonof the lunatic left, is every bit as bad as it can be. Around theworld hundreds of millions would have immediate sympathy, making

Peter's task just that little bit more difficult. The hijackers hadpicked a soft target.

The girl was still speaking, with an intense, almost religious fervour,and as he listened Peter faced the growing certainty that the girl wasa fanatic, treading the thin line which divided sanity from madness.Her voice became a harsh screech as she mouthed her hatred andcondemnation, and when she had finished he knew that she was capable ofanything no cruelty, no baseness was beyond her. He knew that shewould not stop even at suicide, the final act of destroying the Boeing,its passengers and herself he suspected she might even welcome theopportunity of martyrdom, and he felt the chill of it tickle up alonghis spine.

They were silent now, staring at each other, while the hectic flush offanaticism receded from the girl's face and she regained her breath,and Peter waited, controlling his own . misgivings, waiting for her tocalm herself and Continue.

"Our first demand-" the girl had steadied and was watching Petershrewdly now, 4 our first demand is that the statement I have just madebe read on every television network in Britain and the United

States, and also here upon the South African network." Peter felt hisloathing of that terrible little box rise to the surface of hisemotions.

almost as much as the violence and sensation it purveyed soeffectively. "It must be read at the next occurrence of 7 p.m. localtime in LOS Angeles, New York, London and Johannesburg-" Prime time, ofcourse, and the media would gobble it up hungrily, for this was theirmeat and their drink the pornographers of violence!

High above him in the open hatch the girl brandished a thick buffenvelope. "This contains a copy of that statement for transmission itcontains also a list of names. One hundred and twenty-nine names,

all of them either imprisoned or placed under banning orders by thismonstrous police regime. The names on this list are the true leadersof South Africa." She flung the envelope, and it landed at Peter'sfeet.

"Our second demand is that every person on that list be placed aboardan aircraft provided by the South African Government. Aboard the sameaircraft there will be one million gold Kruger Rand coins also providedby the same government. The aircraft will fly to a country chosen bythe freed political leaders. The gold will be used by them toestablish a government in exile, until such time as they return to thiscountry as the true leaders of the people." Peter stooped and pickedup the envelope. He was calculating swiftly. A single Kruger

Rand coin was worth $170 at the very least. The ransom demand was,

therefore, worth one hundred and seventy million dollars.

There was another calculation. "One million Krugers will weigh wellover forty -tons," he told the girl. "How are they going to get allthat on one aircraft?" The girl faltered. It was a little comfort toPeter to realize that they hadn't thought out everything perfectly.

If they made one small mistake, then they were capable of makingothers.

"The government will provide sufficient transport for all the gold andall the prisoners," the girl said sharply. The hesitation had beenmomentary only.

"Is that all?" Peter asked; the sun was stinging his naked shouldersand a cold drop of sweat tickled down his flank.

He had never guessed it could be this bad.

"The aircraft will depart before noon tomorrow, or the execution ofhostages will begin then." Peter felt the crawl of horror.

"Execution." She was using the jargon of legality, and he realized atthat moment that what she promised she would deliver.

"When those aircraft arrive at the destination chosen by the occupants,a pre-arranged code will be flashed to us, and all women and childrenaboard this aircraft will immediately be released."

"And the men?" Peter asked.

"On Monday the sixth three days from now, a resolution is to be tabledbefore the General Assembly of the United Nations in New

York. It will call for immediate total mandatory economic sanctionson

South Africa including withdrawal of all foreign capital, total oil andtrade embargoes, severance of all transport and communications links,blockade of all ports and air borders by a U.N.

peace-keeping force pending free elections under universal suffragesupervised by U.N. inspectors-" Peter's mind was racing to keep aheadof the girl's demands. He knew of the U.N. motion, of course, it hadbeen tabled by Sri Lanka and Tanzania. It would be vetoed in theSecurity Council. That was a certainty but the girl's timing broughtforward new and frightening considerations. The beast had changedshape again, and what he had heard sickened him. It surely could notbe merely coincidence that the resolution was to be tabled within threedays of this strike the implications were too horrible to contemplate.The connivance, if not the direct involvement, of world leaders andgovernments in the strategy of terror.

The girl spoke again deliberately. "If any member of the Security

Council of the U.N. America, Britain or France uses the veto to blockthe resolution of this General Assembly, this aircraft and all aboardher will be destroyed by high explosive." Peter had lost the power ofspeech. He stood gaping up at the lovely blonde child, for child sheseemed, so young and fresh.

When he found his voice again, it croaked hoarsely. "I don't believeyou could have got high explosive aboard this aircraft to carry outthat threat," he challenged her.

The blonde girl said something to somebody who was out of Sight,

and then a few moments later she tossed a dark round object down to

Peter.

"Catch!" she shouted, and he was surprised by the weight of it in hishands. It took only a moment to recognize it.

"Electronically fused!" The girl laughed. "And we have so many I

can afford to give you a sample." The pilot, Cyril Watkins, was tryingto tell him something, touching his own chest but Peter was occupiedwith the explosive in his hands. He knew that a single one of thesewould be fully capable of destroying the Boeing and all aboard her.

What was Watkins trying to tell him? Touching his neck again.

Peter transferred his attention to the girl's neck. She wore a smallcamera slung around her neck. Something connecting camera and grenadeperhaps? Is that what the pilot was trying to tell him?

But now the girl was speaking again. "Take that to your masters,

and let them tremble. The wrath of the masses is upon them. Therevolution is here and now," she said, and the door of the hatchway wasswung closed. He heard the lock fall into place.

Peter turned and began the long walk back, carrying an envelope in onehand, a grenade in the other, and sick loathing in his guts.

Colin Noble's rugged frame almost filled the hatchway of the

Hawker, and for once his expression was deadly serious, no trace oflaughter in his eyes or at the corners of the wide friendly mouth.

"Doctor Parker is on the screen." He greeted Peter who was stillbuttoning his overalls as he hurried to the command plane. "We copiedevery word, and he was hooked into the system."

"Christ, it's had, Colin," Peter grunted.

"That was the good news," Colin told him. "When you have finished withParker, I've got the bad news for you."

"Thanks, pal." Peter shouldered his way past him into the cabin, anddropped into his leather command chair.

On the screen Kingston Parker was hunched over his desk, poring overthe teleprinter sheet on which the entire conversation between

Ingrid and Peter had been recorded, the cold empty pipe gripped betweenhis teeth, the broad brow creased with the weight of his responsibilityas he studied the demands of the terrorist commando.

The communications director's voice from off-screen alerted

Parker.

"General Stride, sir. "And Parker looked up at the camera.

"Peter. This is you and me alone. I have closed the circuit and wewill restrict to single tape recording. I want your first reaction,

before we relay to Sir William and Constable-" Sir William Davies wasthe British Ambassador and Kelly Constable was the United States

Ambassador to Pretoria.

"I want your first reaction."

"We are in serious trouble, sir,"

Peter said, and the big head nodded.

"What is the militant capability?"

"I am having my explosives team take down the grenade but I have nodoubt that they have the physical capability to destroy 070, and allaboard. I reckon they have an overkill potential of at least ten."

"And the psychological capability."

"In my view, she is the child of Bakunin and Jean Paul

Sartre-" Again Parker nodded heavily and Peter went on.

"The anarchist conception that destruction is the only truly creativeact, that violence is man recreating himself. You know Sartre saidthat when the revolutionary kills, a tyrant dies and a free manemerges."

"Will she go all the way?" Parker insisted.

"Yes, sir." Peter answered without hesitation. "If she is pressedshe'll go all the way you know the reasoning. If destruction isbeautiful, then self-destruction is immortality.

In my view, she'll go all the way." Parker sighed and knocked the stemof his pipe against his big white teeth.

"Who is she?" Peter cut in impatiently; he did not have to be toldthat the sound intensifier and the zoom video cameras had been feedingher voice and image into the intelligence computer even as she issuedher demands.

"Her born name is Hilda Becker. She is a third-generation American ofGerman extraction. Her father is a successful dentist widowed in

1959. The girl is thirty-one years old-" Peter had thought heryounger, that fresh young skin had misled him. "- I.Q. 138.

University of Columbia 1965-68, Master's degree in Modern Political

History. Member of SDS that's Students for a Democratic Society-"

"Yes." Peter was impatient. "I know." Activist in Vietnam warprotests. Worker for the draft evasion pipeline to Canada. One arrestfor possession of marijuana 1967, not convicted. Implicated with

Weathermen and one of the leaders of on-campus rioting in the spring of1968. Arrested for bombing of Butler University and released. Left

America in 1970 for further study at Dusseldorf. Doctorate in

Political Economics 1972. Known association with Gudrun Ensslin and

Horst Mahler of the Baader-Meinhof. Went underground in 1976 aftersuspicion of implication in the abduction and murder of Heinrich

Kohler, the West German industrialist--2 Her personal history was analmost classical development of the modern revolutionary, Peterreflected bitterly, a perfect picture of the beast. "Believed to havereceived advanced training from the PFLP in Syria during 1976 and1977.

No recorded contact since then. She is a habitual user ofcannabis-based drugs, reported voracious sexual activity with membersof both sexes-" Parker looked up. "That's all we have, he said.

"Yes," Peter repeated softly. "She'll go all the way."

"What is your further assessment?"

"I believe that this is an operation organized at high level possiblygovernmental-"

"Substantiate!" Parker snapped.

"The coordination with UNO. proposals sponsored by the unalignednations points that way."

"All right, go on."

"For the first time we have a highly organized and heavily supportedstrike that is not seeking some obscure, partisan object. We've gotdemands here about which a hundred million Americans and fifty millionEnglishmen are going to say in unison, "Hell, these aren'tunreasonable.""

"Go on, "said Parker.

"The militants have picked a soft target which is the outcast pariah ofWestern civilization. That U.N. resolution is going to be passed ahundred to nil, and those millions of Americans and Englishmen aregoing to have to ask themselves if they are going to sacrifice thelives of four hundred of their most prominent citizens to support agovernment whose racial policies they abhor."

"Yes?" Parker was leaning forward to stare into the screen.

"Do you think they'll do a deal?"

"The militants? They might." Peter paused a moment and then went on."You know my views, sir. I oppose absolutely dealing with thesepeople."

"Even in these circumstances?" Parker demanded.

"Especially now. My views of the host country's policies are in accordwith yours, Doctor Parker. This is the test.

No matter how much we personally feel the demands are just, yet we mustoppose to the death the manner in which they are presented. If thesepeople win their objects, it is a victory for the gun and we place allmankind in jeopardy."

"What is your estimate for a successful counter strike

Parker demanded suddenly, and even though he had known the questionmust come, still Peter hesitated a long moment.

"Half an hour ago I would have put the odds at ten to one in our favourthat I could pull off condition Delta with only militant casualties."

"And now?"

"Now I know that these are not fuddle-headed fanatics.

They are probably as well trained and equipped as we are, and they havehad years to set this operation up."

"And now? "Parker insisted.

"We have a four to one in our favour of getting them out with a

Delta strike, with say less than ten casualties."

"What is the next best chance?"

"I would say there is no middle ground. If we failed, we would be intoa situation with one hundred per cent casualties we would lose theaircraft and all aboard, including all Thor personnel involved."

"All right then, Peter." Parker leaned back in his chair,

the gesture of dismissal. "I am going to speak with the President andthe Prime Minister, they are setting up the link now. Then I willbrief the ambassadors and be back to you within the hour." His imageflickered into darkness, and Peter realized that all his hatred wassuppressed. He felt cold, and functional as the surgeon's blade.

Ready to do the job for which he had trained so assiduously, and yetable to assess and evaluate the enemy and the odds against success.

He pressed the call button. Colin had been waiting beyond thesoundproof doors of the command cabin, and he came throughimmediately.

"The explosives boys have taken down the grenade. It's a dandy.

The explosive is the new Soviet Q composition, and the fusing isfactory manufacture. Professional stuff and it will work. Oh, baby,

will it ever work. Peter hardly needed this confirmation, and Colinwent on as he flung himself untidily in the chair opposite Peter.

"We put the list of names and the text of the militant statement on theteleprinter for Washington,-" He leaned forward and spoke into thecabin intercom. "Run that loop without sound first." Then he told

Peter grimly. "Here's the bad news I promised." The loop of videotape began to run on the central screen. It had clearly been shot fromthe observation post in the office overlooking the service area.

It was a full shot of the Boeing, the background flattened by themagnification of the lens and swimming and wavering with heat miragerising from the tarmac of the main runway beyond the aircraft.

In the foreground were Peter's own naked back and shoulders as hestrode out towards the aircraft. The lens had again flattened theaction so that Peter appeared to be marking time on the same spotwithout advancing at all.

Suddenly the forward hatch of the Boeing changed shape as the door wasslid aside, and the cameraman instantly zoomed in for the closershot.

The two pilots and the air hostess in the doorway, the camera checkedfor a few frames and then zoomed closer.

The aperture of the lens adjusted swiftly, compensating for the gloomof the interior, and the shot was close and tight on the blonde girl'shead for a heartbeat, then the head turned slightly and the lovely lineof her lips moved as she spoke it seemed like three words before sheturned back full face to the camera.

"Okay," Colin said. "Run it again with neutral balance on the sound."The entire loop reran, the cabin door opened, there were the threehostages, the fine golden head turned, and then the words "Let'sslide," from Ingrid, but there was background hiss and clutter.

"Let's slide? "Peter asked.

"Run it again with the bass density filter on the sound, Colinordered.

The same images on the screen, the golden head turning on the longneck.

"It's slide."" Peter could not quite catch it.

"Okay," Colin told the technician. "Now with full filter and resonancemodulation." The repetitive images, the girl's head, the full lipsparting, speaking to somebody out of sight in the body of theaircraft.

Very clearly, unmistakably, she said, "It's Stride." And Peter felt itjolt in his belly like a fist.

"She recognized you," said Colin. "No, hell, she was expecting you!"The two men stared at each other, Peter's handsome craggy featuresheavy with foreboding. Atlas had one of the highest securityclassifications. Only twenty men outside the close ranks of Atlasitself were privy to its secrets. One of those was the President ofthe United States another was the Prime Minister of Great Britain.

Certainly only four or five men knew who commanded the Thor arm of

Atlas and yet there was no mistaking those words the girl had spoken.

"Run it again," Peter ordered brusquely.

And they waited tensely for those two words, and when they came theywere in the clear tilt of that fresh young voice.

"It's Stride,"said Ingrid, and the screen went blank.

Peter massaged his closed eyelids with thumb and forefinger. Herealized with mild surprise that he had not slept for nearlyforty-eight hours, but it was not physical weariness that assailed himnow but the suddenly overwhelming knowledge of treason and betrayal andof undreamed-of evil.

"Somebody has blown Atlas," said Colin softly. "This is going to be aliving and breathing bastard. They'll be waiting for us at every turnof the track." Peter dropped his hand and opened his eyes. "I

must speak to Kingston Parker again," he said. And when Parker's imagereappeared on the main screen he was clearly agitated and angry.

"You have interrupted the President."

"Doctor Parker-" Peter spoke quickly. Circumstances have altered. Inmy opinion the chances of a successful Delta strike have dropped. Wehave no better than an even chance."

"I see." Parker checked the anger. "That's important. I will informthe President." The lavatories were all blocked by this time, thebowls almost filled, and the stench permeated all the cabins despitethe air-conditioning.

Under the strict rationing of food and water most of the passengerswere suffering from the lethargy of hunger, and the children werepetulant and weepy.

The terrible strain was beginning to show on the hijackers themselves.They were standing a virtual non-stop watch, four hours of broken restfollowed by four of ceaseless vigil and activity. The red cottonshirts were rumpled and sweat-stained at the armpits, the sweat ofnervous and physical strain, eyes bloodshot and tempers uncertain.

just before nightfall, the dark-haired girl, Karen, had lost her temperwith an elderly passenger who had been slow to respond to her commandto return to his seat after using the toilet. She had worked herselfup into an hysterical shrieking rage, and repeatedly struck the old manin the face with the short barrel of her shot pistol, laying his cheekopen to the bone. Only Ingrid had been able to calm her,

leading her away to the curtained tourist galley where she pampered andhugged her.

"It will be all right, Liebchen." She stroked her hair. "Only alittle longer now. You have been so strong. In a few more hours wewill all take the pills. Not long now." And within minutes Karen hadcontrolled the violent trembling of her hands, and although she waspale, she was able to take her position at the rear of the touristcabin again.

Only Ingrid's strength seemed without limits. During the night shepassed slowly down the aisles, pausing to talk quietly with a sleeplesspassenger, comforting them with the promise of imminent release.

"Tomorrow morning we will have an answer to our demands, and all thewomen and children will be free. it's going to be all right, you justwait and see." A little after midnight the little roly-poly doctorsought her out in the cockpit.

"The navigator is very ill," he told her. "Unless we get him to ahospital immediately we will lose him." Ingrid went back and kneltbeside the flight engineer.

His skin was dry and burning hot and his breathing rasped and sawed.

"It's renal failure," said the doctor, hovering over them.

"Breakdown of the kidneys from delayed shock. We cannot treat himhere. He must be taken to hospital." Ingrid took the semi-consciousflight engineer's uninjured hand. "I'm sorry, but that'simpossible."

She went on holding his hand for another minute.

"Don't you feel anything?" the doctor demanded of her bitterly.

"I feel pity for, him as I do for all mankind," she answered quietly."But he is only one. Out there are millions." The toweringflat-topped mountain was lit by floodlights. It was high holidayseason and the fairest cape in all the world was showing her beauty tothe tens of thousands of tourists and holiday makers.

On the penthouse deck of the tall building, named for a politicalmediocrity as are so many buildings and public works in South Africa,

the cabinet and its special advisers had been in session for most ofthe night.

At the head of the long table brooded the heavily built figure of thePrime Minister, bulldog-headed, powerful and unmovable as one of thegranite kopjes of the African veld.

He dominated the large panelled room, although he had hardly spoken,except to encourage the others with a nod or a few gruff words.

At the far end of the long table sat the two ambassadors, shoulder toshoulder, to emphasize their solidarity. At short intervals thetelephones in front of them would ring, and they would listen to thelatest reports from their embassies or instructions from the heads oftheir governments.

On the Prime Minister's right hand sat the handsome moustached

Minister of Foreign Affairs, a man with enormous charisma and areputation for moderation and common sense but now he was grim and hardfaced.

"Your own governments have both pioneered the policy ofnon-negotiation, of total resistance to the demands of terrorists whynow do you insist that we take the soft line?"

"We do not insist, minister, we have merely pointed out the enormouspublic interest that this affair is generating in both the United

Kingdom and in my own country." Kelly Constable was a Slim, handsomeman, intelligent and persuasive, a democratic appointee of the new

American administration. "It is in your government's interest evenmore than ours to see this through to a satisfactory conclusion. Wemerely suggest that some accommodation to the demands might bring thatabout."

"The Atlas Commander on the spot has assessed the chances of asuccessful counter-strike as low as fifty-fifty.

My government considers that risk unacceptable." Sir William

Davies was a career diplomat approaching retirement age, a grey, severeman with gold-rimmed spectacles, his voice high pitched andquerulous.

"My men think we can do better than that ourselves, said the

Minister of Defence, also bespectacled, but he spoke in the thick bluntaccent of the Afrikaaner.

"Atlas is probably the best equipped and most highly trainedanti-terrorist group in the world, Kelly Constable said, and thePrime

"However, I think I should point out that most of the demands made bythe terrorists are directly in line with the representations made bythe government of the United States-"

"Sir, are you expressing sympathy with these demands?" the PrimeMinister asked heavily, but without visible emotion.

"I am merely pointing out that the demands will find sympathy in mycountry, and that my government will find it easier to exercise itsveto on the extreme motion of the General Assembly on Monday if someconcessions are made in other directions."

motion was carried and implemented, it would mean the economic ruin ofthis country. It would be plunged into anarchy and political chaos, aripe fruit for luther Soviet encroachment. My government does notdesire that however, nor does it wish to endanger the lives of fourhundred of its citizens." Kelly Constable smiled. "We have to find away out of our mutual predicament, I'm afraid."

"My Minister of Defence has suggested a way out."

"Prime Minister, if your military attack the aircraft without the prioragreement of both the British and American heads of state, then theveto will be withheld in the Security Council and regretfully we willallow the majority proposal to prevail."

"Even if the attack is successful?"

"Even if the attack is successful. We insist that military decisionsare made by Atlas only," Constable told him solemnly; and then, morecheerfully, "Let us examine the minimum concessions that yourgovernment would be prepared to make. The longer we can keep open thelines of communication with the terrorists, the better our chances of apeaceful solution. Can we offer to fulfill even one small item on thelist of demands?" "Ingrid supervised the serving of breakfastpersonally.

Each passenger was allowed one slice of bread and one biscuit with acup of heavily sweetened coffee. Hunger had lowered the generalresistance of the passengers, they were apathetic and listless oncethey had gobbled their meagre meal.

Ingrid went amongst them again, passing out cigarettes from theduty-free store. Talking gently to the children, stopping tosympathize with a mother smiling and calm.

Already the passengers were calling her "the nice one".

When Ingrid reached the firstclass galley she called her companions toher one at a time, and they each ate a full breakfast of eggs andbuttered toast and kippers. She wanted them as strong and alert as thearduous ordeal would allow.

She could not begin to use the stimulants until midday.

The use of drugs could only be continued for seventy-two hours with thedesired effects. After that the subject would become unpredictable inhis actions and decisions. Ratification of the sanctions vote by theSecurity Council of the United Nations would take place at noon NewYork time on the following Monday that was seven p.m. local time onMonday night.

Ingrid had to keep all her officers alert and active until then,

she dared not use the stimulants too early and risk physicaldisintegration before the decisive hour, and yet she realized that lackof sleep and tension were corroding even her physical reserves; she wasjumpy and nervous, and when she examined her face in the mirror of thestinking firstclass toilets, she saw how inflamed her eyes were, andfor the first time noticed the tiny lines of ageing at the corners ofher mouth and eyes. This angered her unreasonably. She hated thethought of growing old, and she could smell her own unwashed body evenin the overpowering stench from the lavatory.

The German, Kurt, was slumped in the pilot's seat, his pistol in hislap, snoring softly, his red shirt unbuttoned to the waist and hismuscular hairy chest rising and falling with each breath. He wasunshaven and the lank, black hair fell over his eyes. She could smellhis sweat, and somehow that excited her, and she studied himcarefully.

There was an air of cruelty and brutality about him, the machismo ofthe revolutionary, which always attracted her strongly, had perhapsbeen the original reason for her radical leanings so many years ago.

Suddenly she wanted him very badly.

However, when she woke him with a hand down the front of his thin linenslacks, he was bleary-eyed and foul breathed, not even her skilfulkneading could arouse him, and in a minute she turned away with anexclamation of disgust.

As a displacement activity, she picked up the microphone, switched onthe loudspeakers of the passenger cabins. She knew she was actingirrationally, but she began to speak.

"Now listen to me, everybody, I have something very important to tellyou." Suddenly she was angry with them.

They were of the class that had devised and instituted the manifestlyunjust and sick society against which she was in total rebellion. Theywere the fat, complacent bourgeoisie.

They were like her father and she hated them as she hated her father.As she began to speak she realized that they would not even understandthe language she was using, the language of the new political order,and her anger and frustration against them and their society mounted.She did not realize she was raving, until suddenly she heard as fromafar the shriek of outrage in her own voice, like the death wail of amortally wounded animal and she stopped abruptly.

She felt giddy and light-headed, so she had to clutch at the desk topfor support and her heart banged wildly against her ribs. She waspanting as though she had run a long way, and it took nearly a fullminute for her to bring herself under control.

When she spoke again, her tone was still ragged and breathless.

"It is now nine o'clock," she said. "If we do not hear from the tyrantwithin three hours I shall be forced to begin executing hostages. Threehours-" She repeated ominously, only three hours." Now she prowled theaircraft like a big cat paces along the bars of its cage as feedingtime approaches.

"Two hours," she told them, and the passengers shrank away from her asshe passed.

"One hour." There was a bright sadistic splinter of anticipation inher voice. "We will choose the first hostages now.

"But you promised," pleaded the fat little doctor as Ingrid pulled hiswife out of her seat and the Frenchman hustled her forward towards theflight deck.

Ingrid ignored him, and turned to Karen. "Get children, a boy and agirl-" she instructed, " oh yes, and the pregnant one. Let them seeher big belly. They won't be able to resist that." Karen herded thehostages into the forward galley and forced them at pistol point to sitin a row upon the fold down air-crew seats.

The door to the flight deck was open and Ingrid's voice carried clearlyto the galley, as she explained to the Frenchman Henri,

speaking in English.

"It is of the utmost importance that we do not allow a deadline to passwithout retaliating strongly. If we miss one deadline, then ourcredibility is destroyed. It will only be necessary once, we must showthe steel at least once. They must learn that every one of ourdeadlines are irrevocable, not negotiable-" The girl began to cry. Shewas thirteen years old, able to understand the danger. The plumpdoctor's wife put her arm around her shoulders and hugged her gently.

"Speedbird 070-'-the radio squawked suddenly, we have a message forIngrid."

"Go ahead, Tower, this is Ingrid." She had jumped up to take themicrophone, pushing the door to the flight deck closed.

"The negotiator for the British and American governments has proposalsfor your consideration. Are you ready to copy?"

"Negative."

Ingrid's voice was flat and emphatic. "I say again negative. Tell thenegotiator I will talk only face to face and tell him we are only fortyminutes to the noon deadline. He had better get out here fast," shewarned. She hooked the microphone and turned to Henri.

"All right. We will take the pills now it has truly begun at last." Itwas another cloudless day, brilliant sunlight that was flung back inpiercing darts of light from the bare metal parts of the aircraft. Theheat came up through the soles of his shoes and burned down uponPeter's bare neck.

The forward hatch opened, as it had before, when Peter Stride washalf-way across the tarmac.

This time there were no hostages on display, the hatchway was a darkempty square. Suppressing the urge to hurry, Peter carried himselfwith dignity, head up, jaw clenched firmly.

He was yards from the aircraft when the girl stepped into the opening.She stood with indolent grace, her weight all on one leg, the othercocked slightly, long, bare, brown legs. She carried the big shotpistol on one hip, and the cartridge belt emphasized the narrowwaist.

She watched Peter come on, with a half-smile on her lips.

Suddenly a medallion of light appeared on her chest, a dazzling specklike a brilliant insect and she glanced down at it contemptuously.

"This is provocation," she called. Clearly she knew that the brightspeck was the beam thrown by the laser sight of one of the marksmencovering her from the airport building.

A few ounces more of pressure on the trigger would send a .222

bullet crashing precisely into that spot, tearing her heart and lungsto bloody shreds.

Peter felt a flare of anger at the sniper who had activated his lasersight without the order, but his anger was tempered by reluctantadmiration for the girl's courage. She could sneer at that mark ofcertain death upon her breast.

Peter made a cut out sign with his right hand, and almost immediatelythe speck of light disappeared as the gunner switched off his lasersight.

"That's better," the girl said, and she smiled, running her gazeappraisingly down Peter's body.

"You've a good shape, baby," she said, and Peter's anger flared againunder her scrutiny.

"Nice flat belly-" she said, good legs, and you didn't get thosemuscles sitting at a desk and pushing a pen." She pursed her lipsthoughtfully. "You know I think you're a cop or a soldier. That'swhat I think, baby. I think you're a goddamned pig." Her voice had anew harsh quality, and the skin seemed drier and drawn older than ithad been before.

He was close enough now to see the peculiar diamantine glitter in hereyes, and he recognized the tension that seemed to rack her body,

the abrupt restless gestures. She was onto drugs now. He was certainof it. He was dealing with a political fanatic, with a long history ofviolence and death, whose remaining humane traits would be now entirelysuppressed by the high of stimulant drugs. He knew she was moredangerous now than a wounded wild animal, a cornered leopard, amaneating shark with the taste of blood exciting it to the killingfrenzy.

He did not reply, but held her gaze steadily, keeping his hands inview, coming to a halt below the open hatchway.

He waited quietly for her to begin, and the itch of the drug in herblood would not allow her to stand still; she fidgeted with the weaponin her hands, touched the camera still hanging from around her neck.Cyril Watkins had tried to tell him something about that camera andsuddenly Peter realized what it was. The trigger for the fuses? hepondered, as he waited. Almost certainly, he decided, that was why itwas with her every moment. She saw the direction of his eyes, anddropped her hand guiltily, confirming his conclusion.

"Are the prisoners ready to leave?" she demanded. "Is the goldpacked? Is the statement ready for transmission?"

"The South African

Government has ac cesse to urgent representations by the governmentsof

Great Britain and the United States of America."

"Good. "She nodded.

"As an act of common humanity the South Africans have agreed to releaseall the persons on your list of detainees and banned persons-"

"Yes."

"They will be flown to any country of their choice."

"And the gold?"

"The South African Government refuses categorically to finance or toarm an unconstitutional foreign-based opposition. They refuse toprovide funds for the persons freed under this agreement."

"The television transmission?"

"The South African Government considers the statement to be untrue insubstance and in fact and to be extremely prejudicial to themaintenance of law and order in this country. It refuses to allowtransmission of the statement."

"They have accepted only one of our demands? " The girl's voice tookon an even more strident tone, and her shoulders jerked in anuncontrolled spasm.

"The release of political detainees and banned persons is subject toone further condition-" Peter cut in swiftly.

"And what is that-" The girl demanded, two livid burning spots ofcolour had appeared in her cheeks.

"In return for the release of political prisoners, they demand therelease of all hostages, not only the women and children, all personsaboard the aircraft and they will guarantee safe passage for you andall members of your party to leave the country with the releaseddetainees." The girl flung back her head, the thick golden mane flyingwildly about her head as she screeched with laughter.

The laughter was a wild, almost maniacal sound, and though it went onand on, there was no echo of mirth in her eyes.

They were fierce as eagles" eyes, as she laughed. The laughter was cutoff abruptly, and her voice was suddenly flat and level.

"So they think they can make demands, do they? They think they candraw the teeth from the U.N. proposals, do they? They think thatwithout hostages to account for, the fascist governments of Britainand

America can again cast their veto with impunity?" Peter made noreply.

"Answer me!" she screamed suddenly. "They do not believe we areserious, do they?"

"I am a messenger only," he said.

"You're not," she screamed in accusation. "You're a trained killer.You're a pig!" She lifted the pistol and aimed with both hands atPeter's face.

"What answer must I take back?" Peter asked, without in any wayacknowledging the aim of the weapon.

"An answer-" Her voice dropped again to an almost conversational level.Of course, an answer." She lowered the pistol and consulted thestainless steel Japanese watch on her wrist. "It's three minutes pastnoon three minutes past the deadline, and they are entitled to ananswer, of course." She looked around her with an almost bewilderedexpression. The drug was having side effects, Peter guessed.

Perhaps she had overdosed herself, perhaps whoever had prescribed ithad not taken into account the forty-eight sleepless hours of strainthat preceded its use.

"The answer," he prodded her gently, not wanting to provoke anotheroutburst.

"Yes. Wait," she said, and disappeared abruptly into the gloom of theinterior.

Karen was standing over the four hostages on the fold down seats.

She looked around at Ingrid with smouldering dark eyes. Ingrid noddedonce curtly, and Karen turned back to her prisoners.

"Come," she said softly, "we are going to let you go now." Almostgently she lifted the pregnant woman to her feet with a hand on hershoulder.

Ingrid left her and passed swiftly into the rear cabins.

She nodded again to Kurt, and with a toss of his head he flicked thelank locks of hair from his eyes and thrust the pistol into his belt.

From the locker above his head he brought down two of the plasticgrenades. Holding one in each fist he pulled the pins with his teethand held the rings hooked over his little fingers.

With his arms spread like a crucifix, he ran lightly down the aisle.

"These grenades are primed. Nobody must move, nobody must leave theirseats no matter whatever happens. Stay where you are." The fourthhijacker took up the cry from him, holding primed grenades in bothhands above his head.

"Nobody move. No talking. Sit still. Everybody still." He repeatedin German and in French and his eyes had the same hard, glossy glitterof the drug high.

Ingrid turned back towards the flight deck.

"Come, sweetheart." She placed an arm round the girl's shoulder,

shepherding her towards the open hatchway but the child shrank awayfrom her with dread.

"Don't touch me, "she whispered, and her eyes were huge with terror.The boy was younger, more trusting. He took Ingrid's hand readily.

He had thick curly hair, and honey brown eyes as he looked up at her."Is my daddy here?" he asked.

"Yes, darling." Ingrid squeezed his hand. "You be a good boy now,

and you'll see your daddy very soon." She led him to the openhatchway.

"Stand there," she said.

Peter Stride was uncertain what to expect, as the boy stepped into theopen hatchway high above him.

Then next to him appeared a plump middle-aged woman in an expensive butrumpled, high-fashion silk dress, probably a Nina Ricci,

Peter decided irrelevantly. The woman's elaborate lacquered hairstylewas coming down in wisps around her ears, but she had a kindly humorousface and she placed a protective arm about the boy-child's shoulders.

The next person was a taller and younger woman, with a pale sensitiveskin; her nostrils and eyelids were inflamed pink from weeping or fromsome allergy and there were blotches of angry prickly heat on herthroat and upper arms.

Under the loose cotton maternity dress her huge belly bulgedgrotesquely, throwing her off balance; she stood with her thin whitelegs knock-kneed awkwardly and blinked in the brilliant sparklingsunshine, her eyes still attuned to the shaded gloom of the cabin.

The fourth and last person was a young girl, and with a sudden blindingstab of agony below the ribs Peter thought it was

Melissa-Jane. It took a dozen racing beats of his heart before herealized it was not her but she had the same sweet Victorian face, -theclassical English skin of rose petals, the finely bred body of almostwoman wit h delicate breast-buds and long coltish legs below narrowboyish hips.

There was naked terror in her huge eyes, and almost instantly sheseemed to realize that Peter was her hope of salvation. The eyesturned on him pleading, hope starting to awaken.

"Please," she whispered. "Don't let them hurt us." So softly that

Peter could hardly catch the words. "Please, sir. Please help us."

But Ingrid was there, her voice rising stridently.

"You must believe that what we promise, we mean. You and your evilcapitalist masters must understand completely that we will not let asingle deadline pass without executions. We have to prove that for therevolution we are without mercy. You must be made to understand thatour demands must be met in full, that they are not negotiable. We mustdemonstrate the price for missing a deadline." She paused. "The nextdeadline is midnight tonight. If our demands are not met in full bythen you must know the price you will be made to pay." She haltedagain, and then her voice rose into that hysterical shriek.

"This is the price!" and she stepped back out of sight.

Helpless with dread, Peter Stride tried to think of some way to preventthe inevitable.

"Jump!" he shouted, lifting both hands towards the girl.

"Jump, quickly. I will catch you!" But the child hesitated, the dropwas almost thirty feet, and she teetered uncertainly.

Behind her, ten paces back, the dark-haired Karen and the blondelion-maned girl stood side by side, and in unison they lifted theshort, big bored pistols, holding them in the low double-handed grip,

positioning themselves at the angle and range which would allow themass of soft heavy lead beads with which the cartridges were packed tospread sufficiently to sweep the backs of the four hostages.

"Jump!" Peter's voice carried clearly into the cabin, and Ingrid'smouth convulsed in a nervous rictus, an awful parody of a smile.

"Now!" she said, and the two women fired together. The two shotsblended in a thunderous burst of sound, a mind-stopping roar, and bluepowder smoke burst from the gaping muzzles, flying specks of burningwadding hurled across the cabin, and the impact of lead shot intoliving flesh sounded like a handful of watermelon pips thrown against awall.

Ingrid fired the second barrel a moment before Karen, so this time thetwo shots were distinct stunning blurts of sound, and in the dreadfulsilence that followed the two men in the passenger cabins werescreaming wildly.

"Nobody move! Everybody freeze!" For Peter Stride those fractionalseconds seemed to last for long hours. They seemed to play onendlessly through his brain, like a series of frozen frames in agrotesque movie. Image after image seemed separated from the whole, sothat forever afterwards he would be able to recreate each of thementire and undistorted and to experience again undiluted the paralysingnausea of those moments.

The pregnant woman took the full blast of one of the first shots.

She burst open like an overripe fruit, her swollen body pulled out ofshape by the passage of shot from spine to navel, and she was flungforward so she somersaulted out into space. She hit the tarmac in aloose tangle of pale thin limbs, and was completely still, no flickerof life remaining.

The plump woman clung to the boy beside her, and they teetered in theopen doorway around them swirled pale blue wisps of gunsmoke.

Though she kept her balance, the tightly stretched beige silk of herdress was speckled with dozens of tiny wounds, as though she had beenstabbed repeatedly with a sharpened knitting needle. The same woundswere torn through the boy's white school shirt, and little scarletflowers bloomed swiftly around each wound, spreading to stain thecloth. Neither of them made any sound, and their expressions werestartled and uncomprehending. The next blasts of sound and shot struckthem solidly, and they seemed boneless and without substance as theytumbled forward, still locked together. Their fall seemed to continuefor a very long time, and then they sprawled together over the pregnantwoman's body.

Peter ran forward to catch the girl-child as she fell, and her weightbore him to his knees on the tarmac. He came to his feet running,carrying her like a sleepy baby, one arm under her knees and the otheraround her shoulders. Her lovely head bumped against his shoulder, andthe fine silken hair blew into his face, half blinding him.

"Don't die," he found himself grunting the words in time to hispounding feet. "Please don't die." But he could feel the warm wetleak of blood down his belly, soaking into his shorts, and dribblingdown the front of his thighs.

At the entrance to the terminal buildings Colin Noble ran out a dozenpaces and tried to take the child from his arms, but Peter resisted himfiercely.

Peter relinquished the frail, completely relaxed body to the Thordoctor and he stood by without word or expression of regret as thedoctor worked swiftly over her.

Peter's face was stony and his wide mouth clamped in a hard line whenthe doctor looked up at last.

"I'm afraid she's dead, sir." Peter nodded curtly and turned away.

His heels cracked on the echoing marble of the deserted terminal halland Colin Noble fell in silently beside him. His face was as bleak andexpressionless as Peter's, as they climbed into the cabin of the Hawkercommand aircraft.

Sir William, you point at us for holding enemies of the State withouttrial." The Foreign Minister leaned forward to point the accuser'sfinger. "But you British discarded the citizen's right of

Habeas Corpus when you passed the Prevention of Terrorism Act, and in

Cyprus and Palestine you were holding prisoners without trial longbefore that. Now your block in Ulster is that any better than what weare forced to do here?" Sir William, the British Ambassador, gobbledindignantly, while he collected his thoughts.

Kelly Constable intervened smoothly. "Gentlemen, we are trying to findcommon ground here not areas of dispute. There are hundreds of livesat stake-" A telephone shrilled in the air-conditioned hush of the roomand Sir William lifted the receiver to his ear with patent relief, butas he listened, all blood drained from his face, leaving it ajaundiced, putty colour.

"I see," he said once, and then, "very well, thank you," and replacedthe receiver. He looked down the length of the long polished imbuiawood table to the imposing figure at the end.

"Prime Minister-" his voice quavered a little I regret to inform youthat the terrorists have rejected the compromise proposals offered byyour government, and that ten minutes ago they murdered four hostages." There was a gasp of disbelief from the attentive circle of listeningmen.

" The hostages were two women and two children a boy and a girl theywere shot in the back and their bodies thrown from the aircraft. Theterrorists have set a new deadline midnight tonight for the acceptanceof their terms. Failing which there will be further shootings." Thesilence lasted for almost a minute as head after head turned slowly,until they were all staring at the big hunched figure at the head ofthe table.

"I appeal to you in the name of humanity, sir." It was Kelly

Constable who broke the silence. "We must save the women and childrenat least. The world will not allow us to sit by as they aremurdered."

"We will have to attack the aircraft and free the prisoners," saidthe

Prime Minister heavily.

But the American Ambassador shook his head. "My government is adamant,sir as is that of my British colleague-" he glanced at Sir

William, who nodded support we cannot and will not risk a massacre.

Attack the aircraft and our governments will make no attempt tomoderate the terms of the U.N. proposals, nor will we intervene inthe

Security Council to exercise the veto."

"Yet, if we agree to the demands of these these animals-" the lastwords were said fiercely we place our nation in terrible danger."

"Prime Minister, we have only hours to find a solution then the killingwill begin again."

"you yourself have placed the success chances of a Delta strike as lowas even," Kingston Parker pointed out, staring grimly at Peter Strideout of the little square screen. "Neither the President nor I findthose odds acceptable."

"Doctor Parker, they are murdering women and children out there on thetarmac." Peter tried to keep his tone neutral, his reasoningbalanced.

"Very strong pressure is being brought to bear on the South

African Government to accede to the terms for release of the women andchildren."

"That will solve nothing." Peter could not restrain himself

"It will leave us with exactly the same situation tomorrow night."

"If we can secure the release of the women and children, the number oflives at risk will be reduced, and in forty hours the situation mighthave changed. we are buying time, Peter, even if we have to pay for itwith a heavy coin."

"And if the South Africans do not agree? If we come to the midnightdeadline without an agreement with the hijackers, what happens then,Doctor Parker?"

"This is a difficult thing to say, Peter, but if that happens-" Parkerspread those long graceful hands in a gesture of resignation, we maylose another four lives, but that is better than precipitating themassacre of four hundred. And after that the South Africans will notbe able to hold out. They will have to agree to free the women andchildren at any cost." Peter could not truly believe what he hadheard. He knew he was on the very brink of losing his tempercompletely, and he had to give himself a few seconds to steadyhimself.

He dropped his eyes to his own hands that were interlocked on the desktop in front of him. Under the fingernails of his right hand wereblack half moons, the dried blood of the child he had carried back fromthe aircraft. Abruptly he unlocked his fingers and thrust both handsdeeply into the pockets of his blue Thor overalls. He took a long deepbreath, held it a moment, then let it out slowly.

"If that was difficult to say, Doctor Parker console yourself that itwas a bloody sight harder to listen to."

"I understand how you feel, Peter."

"I don't think you do, sir." Peter shook his head slowly.

"You are a soldier-" and only a soldier knows how to really hateviolence, Peter finished for him.

"Our personal feelings must not be allowed to intrude in this."

Kingston Parker's voice had a sharp edge to it now.

"I must once again forcibly remind you that the decision for conditionDelta has been delegated to me by the President and your

Prime Minister. No strike will be made without my express orders. Doyou understand that, General Stride?"

"I understand, Doctor Parker," Peter said flatly. "And we hope to getsome really good videotapes of the next murders. I'll let you havecopies for your personal collection." The other 747 had been groundedfor servicing when the emergency began, and it was parked in theassembly area only a thousand yards from where Speedbird 070 stood,

but the main service hangars and the corner of the terminal buildingseffectively screened it from any observation by the hijackers.

Although it wore the orange and blue of South African Airways with theflying Springbok on the tail, it was an almost identical model to itssister ship. Even the cabin configurations were very close to theplans of Speedbird 070, which had been tele printed from BritishAirways

Headquarters at Heathrow. It was a fortunate coincidence, and anopportunity that Colin Noble had seized immediately. He had alreadyrun seven mock Deltas on the empty hull.

"All right, you guys, let's try and get our arses out of low gear onthis run. I want to better fourteen seconds from the "go" topenetration-" His strike team glanced at one another as they squattedin a circle on the tarmac, and there were a few theatrical rollings ofeyes. Colin ignored them. "Let's go for nine seconds, gang," he saidand stood up.

There were sixteen men in the actual assault group seventeen when

Peter Stride joined them. The other members of Thor were technicalexperts electronics and communications, four marksmen snipers, aweapons quart erA master, and a bomb disposal and explosivessergeant,

doctor, cook, three engineering NCOs under a lieutenant, the pilots andother flight personnel a big team, but every man was indispensable.

The assault group wore single-piece uniforms of close fitting blacknylon, for low night visibility. They wore their gas masks looselyaround their necks, ready for instant use.

Their boots were black canvas lace-ups, with soft rubber soles forsilence. Each man wore his specialized weapons and equipment either ina back pack or on his black webbing belt. No bulky bulletproof flakjackets to impede mobility or to snag on obstacles, no hard helmets totap against metal and tell tales to a wary adversary.

Nearly all the group were young men, in their early twenties, handpicked from the U.S. Marine corps or from the British 22.SAS regimentthat Peter Stride had once commanded. They were superbly fit, andhoned to a razor's edge.

Colin Noble watched them carefully as they assembled silently on themarks he had chalked on the tarmac, representing the entrances to theair terminal and the service hangars nearest to 070. He was searchingfor any sign of slackness, any deviation from the almost impossiblestandards he had set for Thor. He could find none. "All right, tenseconds to flares," he called. A Delta strike began with the launchingof phosphorus flares across the nose of the target aircraft. Theywould float down on their tiny parachutes, causing a diversion whichwould hopefully bunch the terrorists in the flight deck of the targetaircraft as they tried to figure out the reason for the lights. Thebrilliance of the flares would also sear the retina of the terrorists"eyes and destroy night vision for many minutes afterwards.

"Flares!" shouted Colin, and the assault group went into action.

The two "stick" men led them, sprinting out directly under the gigantictail of the deserted aircraft. Each of them carried a gas cylinderstrapped across his shoulder, to which the long stainless steel probeswere attached by flexible armoured couplings these were the "sticks"

that gave them their name.

The leader carried compressed air in the tank upon his back at apressure of 250 atmospheres, and on the tip of his twenty-foot probewas the diamond cutting bit of the air drill He dropped on one kneeunder the belly of the aircraft ten feet behind the landing gear andreached up to press the point of the air-drill against the exactspot,

carefully plotted from the manufacturer's drawing, where the pressurehull was thinnest and where direct access to the passenger cabins layjust beyond the skin of alloy metal.

The whine of the cutting drill would be covered by the revving of thejet engines of aircraft parked in the southern terminal. Three secondsto pierce the hull, and the second stick" man was ready to insert thetip of his probe into the drill hole.

"Power A" Colin grunted; at that moment electrical power from the mainsto the aircraft would be cut to kill the air-conditioning.

The second man simulated the act of releasing the gas from the bottleon his back through the probe and saturating the air in the aircraft'scabins. The gas was known simply as FACTOR V. It smelled faintly ofnewly dug truffles, and when breathed as a five per cent concentrationin air would partially paralyse a man in under ten seconds, loss ofmotor control of the muscles, uncoordinated movement,

slurred speech and distorted vision, were initial symptoms.

Breathed for twenty seconds the symptoms were total paralysis, forthirty seconds loss of consciousness; breathed for two minutes,

pulmonary failure and death. The antidote was fresh air or, betterstill, pure oxygen, and recovery was rapid with no long-term.

after-effects.

The rest of the assault group had followed the "stick" men and splitinto four teams. They waited poised, squatting under the wings, gasmasks in place, equipment and weapons ready for instant use.

Colin was watching his stopwatch. He could not chance exposing thepassengers to more than ten seconds of Factor V. There would be elderlypeople, infants, asthma sufferers aboard; as the needle reached theten-second mark, he snapped.

"Power on." Air-conditioning would immediately begin washing the gasout of the cabins again, and now it was "Go!" Two assault teams pouredup the aluminium. scaling ladders onto the wing roots, and knocked outthe emergency window panels. The other two teams went for the maindoors, but they could only simulate the use of slap-hammers to tearthrough the metal and reach the locking device on the interior norcould they detonate the stun grenades.

"Penetration." The assault leader standing in for Peter Stride on thisexercise signalled entry of the cabins, and Colin clicked hisstopwatch.

"Time?" asked a quiet voice at his shoulder, and he turned quickly.

So intent on his task, Colin had not heard Peter Stride come up behindhim.

"Eleven seconds, sir." The courteous form of address was proof of

Colonel Colin Noble's surprise. "Not bad but sure as hell not goodeither. We'll run it again."

"Rest them" Peter ordered. "I want to talk it out a bit." They stoodtogether at the full windows in the south wall of the air trafficcontrol tower, and studied the big red,

white and blue aircraft for the hundredth time that day.

The heat of the afternoon had raised thunderheads, great purple andsilver mushroom bursts of cloud that reached to the heavens.

Trailing grey skirts of torrential rain they marched across thehorizon, forming a majestic backdrop that was almost too theatrical tobe real, while the lowering sun found the gaps in the cloud and shotlong groping fingers of golden light through them, heightening theillusion of theatre.

"Six hours to deadline," Colin Noble grunted, and groped for one of hisscented black cheroots. "Any news of concessions by the locals?"

"Nothing. I don't think they will buy it."

"Not until the next batch of executions." Colin bit the end from thecheroot and spat it angrily into a corner. "For two years I break myballs training for this, and now they tie our hands behind ourbacks."

"If they gave you

Delta, when would you make your run?" Peter asked.

"As soon as it was dark,"Colin answered promptly.

"No. They are still revved up high on drugs," Peter demurred.

"We should give them time to go over the top, and start downing. Myguess is they will dope again just before the next deadline. I wouldhit them just before that-" He paused to calculate. " - I'd hit themat fifteen minutes before eleven seventy-five minutes before thedeadline."

"If we had Delta,"Colin grunted.

"If we had Delta," Peter agreed, and they were silent for a moment."Listen, Colin, this has been wearing me down. If they know my name,what else does that gang of freaks know about Thor? Do they know ourcontingency planning for taking an aircraft?"

"God, I hadn't worked it out that far."

"I have been looking for a twist, a change from the model, somethingthat will give us the jump even if they know what to expect."

"We've taken two years to set it up tightly-" Colin looked dubious."There is nothing we can change."

"The flares," said

Peter. "If we went, we would not signal the Delta with the flares, wewould go in cold!

"The uglies would be scattered all through the cabins, mixed up withpassengers and crew-"

"The red shirt Ingrid was wearing. My guess is, all four of them willbe uniformed to impress their hostages. We would hose anything andeverybody in red. If my guess is wrong, then we would have to do itIsraeli style." Israeli style was the shouted command to lie down,

and to kill anyone who disobeyed or who made an aggressive move.

"The truly important one is the girl. The girl with the camera.

Have your boys studied the videotapes of her?"

"They know her face better than they do Fawcett Majors'," Colingrunted, and then, "the bitch is so goddamned lovely I had to run thevideo of the executions three times for them, twice in slow motion, towipe out a little of the old chivalry bit." It is difficult to get aman to kill a pretty girl,

and a moment of hesitation would be critical with a trained fanaticlike Ingrid. "I also made them take a look at the little girl beforethey put her in a basket and took her down to the morgue. They're inthe right mood." Colin shrugged. "But what the hell, Atlas isn'tgoing to call Delta. We're wasting our time."

"Do you want to play make-believe?" Peter asked, and then withoutwaiting for an answer,

"Let's make believe we have a Delta approval from Atlas. I want you toset up a strike timed to "go" at exactly 10-45 local time tonight. Doit as though it was the real thing get it right in every detail."

Colin turned slowly and studied his commander's face, but the eyes werelevel and without guile and the strong lines of jaw and mouth wereunwavering.

Peter lifted the binoculars and slowly traversed the length of the bigmachine from tail to nose, but there was no sign of life, every portand window still carefully covered and reluctantly he let hisbinoculars sink slightly until he was staring at the pitiful pile ofbodies that still lay on the tarmac below the forward hatch.

Except for the electrical mains hook-up, the delivery of medicines andthe two occasions when Peter himself had made the long trip out there,nobody else had been allowed to approach the machine. No refuelling,no refuse nor sanitary removals, no catering not even the removal ofthe corpses of the murdered hostages. The hijackers had learned thelesson of previous hijacking attempts when vital information had beensmuggled off the aircraft in refuse and sewerage at Mogadishu, and atLad where the storming party had come disguised as caterers.

Peter was still gazing at the bodies, and though he was accustomed todeath in its most obscene forms, these bodies offended him more deeplythan any in his life before. This was a contemptuous flaunting of allthe deepest rooted taboos of society. Peter was grimly content nowwith the decision of the South African police not to allow anytelevision teams or press photographers through the main gates of theairport.

Peter knew that the world media were howling outrage and threats,

protesting in the most extreme terms against the infringement oftheir

God-given rights to bring into the homes of all civilized people imagesof dreadful death and mutilation, lovingly photographed in gorgeouscolour with meticulous professional attention to all the macabredetails.

Without this enthusiastic chronicling of their deeds,

international terrorism would lose most of its impetus and his jobwould be a lot easier. For sneaking moments he envied the local policethe powers they had to force irresponsibles to act in the bestinterests of society, then as he carried the thought a step further, hecame up hard once "again against the question of who was qualified tomake such decisions on behalf of society. If the police made thatdecision and exerted it, was it not just another form of the terrorismit was seeking to suppress? "Christ," thought Peter angrily, "I'mgoing to drive myself mad." He stepped up beside the senior airtraffic controller.

"I want to try again," Peter said, and the man handed him themicrophone.

"Speedbird 070 this is the tower. Ingrid, do you read me?

Come in, Ingrid." He had tried a dozen times to make contact in thelast few hours, but the hijackers had maintained an ominous silence.

"Ingrid, we request your clearance to have an ambulance remove thebodies, Peter asked.

"Negative, Tower. I say again, negative. No one is to approach thisaircraft." There was a pause. "We will wait until we have a rounddozen bodies for you to remove-" The girl giggled, still on the drughigh, wait until midnight, and we'll make it really worth yourwhile."

And the radio clicked into silence.

"We are going to give you dinner now," Ingrid shouted cheerfully, andthere was a stir of interest down the length of the cabin. "And it'smy birthday today. So you're going to have champagne,

isn't that great!" But the plump little Jewish doctor rose suddenly tohis feet. His grey sparse hair stood up in comical wisps, and his faceseemed to have collapsed, like melting wax, ravaged and destroyed bygrief He no longer seemed to be aware of what had been said or what washappening. "You had no right to kill her." His voice sounded like avery old man. "She was a good person. She never hurt anyone " Helooked about him with a confused, unfocused look, and ran the fingersof one hand through his disordered hair. "You should not have killedher, he repeated.

"She was guilty," Ingrid called back at him. "Nobody is innocent youare all the cringing tools of international capitalism-" Her facetwisted, in an ugly spasm of hatred.

" You are guilty, all of you, and you deserve to die,-" She stoppedshort, controlled herself with an obvious effort of will, and thensmiled again; going forward to the little doctor, she put an arm aroundhis shoulders.

"Sit down, she said, almost tenderly, "I know just how you feel,

please believe me, I wish there had been another way. He sank downslowly, his eyes vacant with sorrow and his fingers plucking numbly atthemselves.

"You just sit there quietly," Ingrid said gently. "I'm going to bringyou a glass of champagne now." Prime Minister." Kelly Constable'svoice was husky with almost two days and nights of unceasing tension,

it's after ten o'clock already. We must have a decision soon, in lessthan two hours-" The Prime Minister lifted one hand to silence the restof "Yes, we all know what will happen then." An airforce jet hasdelivered a copy of the videotape from Johannesburg, a thousand milesaway, and the cabinet and the ambassadors had watched the atrocity indetail, recorded by an 800 men. lens. There was not a man at thetable who did not have children of his own. The toughest right-wingersamongst them wavered uncertainly, even the puckish little Minister of

Police could not meet the ambassador's eyes as he swept the table witha compelling gaze.

"And we all know that no compromise is possible, we must meet thedemands in full or not at all."

"Mr. Ambassador-" the Prime Minister broke the silence at last, " ifwe agree to the terms, it will be only as an act of humanity. We willbe paying a very high price indeed for the lives of your people but ifwe agree to that price, can we be absolutely assured of your supportthe support of both Britain and the United States in the SecurityCouncil the day after tomorrow at noon?"

"The President of the United States has empowered me to pledge hissupport in return for your co-operation," said Kelly Constable.

"Her Britannic Majesty's Government has asked me to assure you of thesame support," intoned Sir William. "And our governments will makegood the 170 million dollars demanded by the hijackers."

"Still I

cannot make the decision on my own. It is too onerous for one man,"

the Prime Minister sighed. "I am going to ask my ministers, the fullcabinet-" he indicated the tense, grim faces around him, to vote. I amgoing to ask you gentlemen to leave us alone now for a few minuteswhile we decide." And the two ambassadors rose together and bowedslightly to the brooding, troubled figure before leaving the room.

"Where is Colonel Noble?" Kingston Parker asked.

"He is waiting-" Peter indicated with a jerk of his head thesound-proof door of the Hawker's command cabin.

"I want him in on this, please," Parker said from the screen, and

Peter pressed the call button.

Colin Noble came in immediately, stooping slightly under the low roof,a chunky powerful figure with the blue Thor cap pulled low over hiseyes.

"Good evening, sir." He greeted the image on the screen and squeezedinto the seat beside Peter.

"I'm glad Colonel Noble is here." Peter's voice was crisp andbusinesslike. "I think he will support my contention that the chancesof a successful Delta counter strike will he greatly enhanced if we canlaunch our attack not later than ten minutes before eleven o'clock." Hetugged back the cuff of his sleeve, and glanced at his watch. "That isforty minutes from now. We reckon to catch the militants at the momentwhen the drug cycle is at its lowest, before they take more pills andbegin to arouse themselves to meet their deadline. I believe that ifwe strike then, we will have an acceptable risk-"

"Thank you, General

Stride-" Parker interrupted him smoothly, " but I wanted Colonel

Noble present so there could be no misunderstanding of my orders.

Colonel Noble," Parker's eyes shifted slightly as he changed the objectof his attention. "Commander of Thor has requested an immediate Deltastrike against Speedbird 070. "I am now, in your presence,disapproving that request. Negotiations with the South AfricanGovernment are at a critical state, and under no circumstances mustthere be either overt or covert hostile moves towards the militants. DoI make myself entirely clear?"

"Yes, sir. "Colin Noble's expression was stony.

"General Stride?"

"I understand, sir."

"Very well. I want you to stand by, please. I am going to confer withthe ambassadors. I will re-establish contact as soon as I have furtherconcrete indications."

The image receded rapidly, and the screen went dark.

Colonel Colin Noble turned slowly and looked at Peter Stride, hisexpression changed slightly at what he saw, and quickly he pressed thecensor button on the command console, stopping all recording tapes,

killing the video cameras so there would be no record of his wordsnow.

"Listen, Peter, you're in line for that NATO command, everybody knowsthat. From there the sky is the limit, pat.

Right up there to the joint chiefs just as far as you want to go Petersaid nothing, but glanced once more at the gold Rolex wristwatch. Itwas seventeen minutes past ten o'clock.

"Think, Peter. For God's sake, man. It's taken you twentyheart-breaking years of hard work to get where you are.

They would never forgive you, buddy. You'd better believe it.

They'll break you and your career. Don't do it, Peter.

Don't do it. You're too good to waste yourself. just stop and thinkfor one minute."

"I'm thinking," said Peter quietly. "I haven't stopped thinkingsince-" he checked, always it comes back to this. If

I let them die then I am as guilty as that woman who pulls thetrigger."

"Peter, you don't have to beat your head in. The decision is made bysomeone else." it would be easier to believe that, wouldn't it,"

Peter snapped, "but it won't save those people out there." Colinleaned across and placed a large hairy paw on Peter's upper arm. Hesqueezed slightly. "I know, but it eats me to see you have to throw itall away. In my book, you're one of the tops, buddy." It was thefirst time he had made any such declaration, and Peter was fleetinglymoved by it.

"You can duck this one, Colin. It doesn't have to touch you or yourcareer."

"I never was very hot at ducking." Colin dropped his hand away. "Ithink I'll go along for the ride,"

"I want you to record a protest, no sense us all getting ourselvesfired," said Peter, as he switched on the recording equipment, bothaudio and video; now every word would be recorded.

"Colonel Noble," he said distinctly, "I am about to lead an immediateDelta assault on Flight 070. Please make the arrangements."

Colin turned to face the camera. "General Stride, I must formallyprotest at any order to initiate condition Delta without expressapproval from Atlas Command."

"Okay, that's enough crap for one day." He came nimbly to his feet."Let's get out there and take the bastards." Ingrid sat at the flightengineer's desk, and held the microphone of the on-board loudspeakersystem to her lips. There was a greyish tone beneath the sun-gildedskin; she frowned a little at the throbbing pulse of pain behind hereyes and the hand that held the microphone trembled slightly. She knewthese were all symptoms of the drug hangover. She regretted now havingincreased the initial dosage beyond that recommended on the typed labelof the tablet phial but she had needed that extra lift to be able tocarry out the first executions. Now she and her officers were payingthe price, but in another twenty minutes she would be able to issueanother round of tablets.

This time she would stay exactly within the recommended dosage,

and she anticipated the rush of it through her blood, the heightenedvision and energy, the tingling exhilaration of the drug. She evenanticipated the thought of what lay ahead; to be able to wield absolutepower, the power of death itself, was one of life's most worthwhileexperiences.

Sartre and Bakunin and Most had discovered one of the great truths oflife that the act of destruction, of total destruction, was acatharsis, a creation, a reawakening of the soul. She lookedforward,

even through the staleness and ache of the drug let-down, she lookedforward to the next executions.

"My friends-" she spoke into the microphone, we have not heard from thetyrant. His lack of concern for your lives is typical of the fascistimperialist. He does not concern himself with the safety of thepeople, though he sucks and bloats himself on the blood and sweat.outside the aircraft the night was black and close.

Thunderheads blotted out half the sky, and every few minutes lightninglit the clouds internally. Twice since sundown abrupt fierce downpoursof torrential rain had hammered briefly against the Boeing hull, andnow the airport lights glinted on the puddled tarmac.

We have to show the face of unrelenting courage and iron purpose to thetyrant. We cannot afford to show even a moment's hesitation.

We must now choose four more hostages. It will be done with the utmostimpartiality and I want you all to realize that we are now all part ofthe revolution together, you can be proud of that-" Lightning explodedsuddenly, much closer, a crackling greenish, iridescent flaming of theheavens that lit the field in merciless light, and then the flail ofthe thunder beat down upon the aircraft. The girl Karen exclaimedinvoluntarily and sprang nervously to her feet and crossed quickly tostand beside Ingrid. Her dark eyes were now heavily underscored by thedark kohl of fatigue and drug withdrawal; she trembled violently, andIngrid caressed her absently the way she -might calm a frightenedkitten as she went on speaking into the microphone.

We must all of us learn to welcome death, to welcome the opportunity totake our place and add our contribution, no matter how humble it mightbe, to man's great reawakening." Lightning burst in fierce splendouronce again, but Ingrid went on talking into the microphone, thesenseless words somehow hypnotic and lulling so that her captives satin quietly lethargic rows, not speaking, unmoving,

seeming no longer capable of independent thought.

"I have drawn lots to choose the next martyrs of the revolution.

I will call out the seat numbers and my officers will come to fetchyou. Please co-operate by moving quickly forward to the first-classgalley." There was a pause, and then Ingrid's voice again. "Seatnumber 63B. Please stand up.) The scarred German in the red shirt andwith the lank black hair hanging over his eyes had to force the thin,

middle-aged man to his feet, twisting his wrist up between his shoulderblades. The man's white shirt was crumpled and he wore elastic bracesover his shoulders and oldfashioned narrow trousers.

"You can't let them," the man pleaded with his fellow passengers,

as Henri pushed him up the aisle. "You can't let them kill me,

please." And they looked down at their laps.

Nobody moved, nobody spoke.

"Seat number 43F." It was a handsome dark-haired woman in her middlethirties, and her face seemed to dissolve slowly as she read the numberabove her seat, and she covered her mouth with one hand to preventherself crying out but from the seat exactly across the aisle from hera sprightly old gentleman with a magnificent mane of silver-grey hairrose swiftly to his feet and adjusted his tie.

"Would you care to change seats with me, madam?" he said softly in aclipped English accent, and strode down the aisle, on long, thin,

stork-like legs, contemptuously brushing past the blond moustached

Frenchman who came hurrying forward to escort him. Without a glance toeither side, and with thin shoulders thrown back, he disappearedthrough the curtains into the forward galley.

The Boeing had a blind spot that extended back from the side windows ofthe flight deck at an angle of 20 to the tail, but the hijackers wereso well equipped and seemed to have considered every eventuality insuch detail that there was no reason to fear that they had worked outsome arrangement to keep the blind spot under surveillance.

Peter and Colin discussed the possibility quietly as they stood in theangle of the main service hangar, and both of them carefully studiedthe soaring shape of the Boeing tailplane and the sagging underbelly ofthe fuselage for the glint of a mirror or some other device. They weredirectly behind the aircraft and there was a little over four hundredyards to cover, half of that through knee-high grass and the rest overtarmac.

The field was lit only by the blue periphery lights of the taxiway, andthe glow of the airport buildings.

Peter had considered dousing all the airport lights, but discarded theidea as self-defeating. It would certainly alert the hijackers,

and would slow the crossing of the assault team.

"I can't see anything," Colin murmured.

"No," agreed Peter and they both handed their night glasses to ahovering NCO they wouldn't need them again. The assault team hadstripped all equipment down to absolute essentials.

All that Peter carried was a lightweight eleven-ounce VHF

transceiver for "communicating with his men in the terminal buildingand in a quick-release holster on his right hip a Walther PK 38

automatic pistol.

Each member of the assault team carried the weapon of his own choice.Colin Noble favoured the Browning Hi-power .45 for its massive killingpower and large fourteen-round magazine, while Peter liked the pinpointaccuracy and light recoil of the 9 men. parabellum Walther with whichhe could be certain of a snap head-shot at fifty metres.

One item was standard equipment for all members of the assault team.Every one of their weapons was loaded with Super Velex explosivebullets which trebled the knockdown power at impact, breaking up in thehuman body and thereby reducing the risk of over-penetration and withit the danger to innocents. Peter never let them forget they wouldnearly always be working with terrorist and victim closely involved.

Beside Peter, Colin Noble unclipped the thin gold chain from around hisneck which held the tiny Star of David, twinkling gold on the blackbush of his chest hair. He slipped the ornament into his pocket andbuttoned down the flap.

"I say, old chap-" Colin Noble gave an atrocious imitation of a

Sandhurst accent shall we toddle along then?" 4 Peter glanced at theluminous dial of his Rolex. It was sixteen minutes to eleveno'clock.

The exact moment at which my career ends, he thought grimly, and raisedhis right arm with clenched fist, then pumped it up and down twice, theold cavalry signal to advance.

Swiftly the two men raced out ahead, absolutely silent on soft rubbersoles, carrying their probes at high port to prevent them clatteringagainst tarmac or against the metal parts of the aircraft,

dark hunchbacked figures under the burden of the gas cylinders theycarried.

Peter gave them a slow count of five, and while he waited he felt theadrenalin charge his blood, every nerve and muscle of his body comingunder tension, and he heard his own words to Kingston Parker echo inhis ears like the prophecy of doom.

"There is no middle ground. The alternative is one hundred per centcasualties. We lose the aircraft, the passengers and all the Thorpersonnel aboard her." He thrust the thought aside, and repeated thesignal to advance. In two neat files, bunched up close and well inhand,

the assault teams went out, at the run. Three men carrying each of thealuminium alloy scaling ladders, four with the sling-bags of stungrenades, others with the slap hammers to tear out the door locks, andeach with his chosen weapon always a big calibre handgun for Peter

Stride would trust nobody with an automatic weapon in the crowdedinterior of a hijacked aircraft, and the minimum requirement for everymember of the assault teams was marksmanship with a pistol that wouldenable him to pick a small moving target and hit it repeatedly andquickly without endangering innocents.

They ran in almost total silence; the loudest sound was Peter'sbreathing in his own ears, and he had time now for a moment's regret.

It was a gamble which he could never win, the best that could happenwas the utter ruin of his life's work, but he steeled himself brutallyand thrust aside the thought. He ran on into the night.

Just ahead of him now, silhouetted by the lights of the terminalbuilding, the dark figures of the "stick" men were in position underthe bulging silver belly; and lightning flared suddenly, so that thetall silver thunderheads rippled with intense white fire, and the fieldwas starkly lit, the double column of black-clad figures standing outclearly against the paler grass. If they were observed, it would comenow, and the crash of thunder made Peter's nerves jump, expectingdetonation and flame of a dozen percussion grenades.

Then it was dark again, and the sponginess of wet grass beneath hisfeet gave way to flat hard tarmac. Then suddenly they were under theBoeing fuselage, like chickens under the protective belly of the hen,and the two columns split neatly into four separate groups and still intight order every man dropped onto his left knee, and at the samemoment, with the precision of repeated rehearsals, every member of theteam lifted his gas mask to cover his nose and mouth.

Peter swept one quick glance back at them, and then depressed thetransmit button on his transceiver. He would not speak a word from nowuntil it was over; there was always a remote possibility that thehijackers were monitoring this frequency.

The click of the button was the signal to the members of his team inthe terminal and almost immediately, there was a rising whistling howlof jet engines running up.

Even though the aircraft were parked up in the northern internationaldepartures area, they had been turned so the jet exhausts were pointedat the service area, and there were five intercontinental jet linersco-operating. The combined sound output of twenty big jet engines wasdeafening even at that range and Peter gave the open hand signal.

The "stick" man was waiting poised, and at the signal he reached up andplaced the drill bit against the belly of the fuselage. Any sound ofthe compressed air spinning the drill was effectively drowned,

and there was only the slight jerk of the long probe as it went throughthe pressure hull.

Instantly the second "stick" man placed the tip of his probe into thetiny hole, and glanced at Peter. Again the open hand signal, and thegas was spurting into the hull. Peter was watching the sweep hand ofhis watch.

Two clicks on the transmit button, and the lights behind the row ofshaded portholes blinked out simultaneously as the mains power was cutand the air-conditioning in the Boeing's cabins with it.

The howl of combined jet engines continued a few seconds longer andPeter signalled the ladder men forward.

Gently the rubber-padded tops of the ladders were hooked onto theleading edges of the wings and into the door sills high above them byblack-costumed, grotesquely masked figures working with deceptivelycasual speed.

Ten seconds from discharge of the Factor V gas into the hull, and

Peter clicked thrice. Instantly mains power to the Boeing was resumedand the lights flicked on. Now the air-conditioning was runningagain,

washing the gas swiftly from the cabins and flight deck.

Peter drew one long, slow deep breath and tapped Colin's shoulder.

They went up the ladders in a concerted silent rush, Peter and Colinleading the teams to each wing surface.

ten minutes to eleven," said Ingrid to Karen. She lifted her voiceslightly above the din of jet engines howling somewhere out there inthe night. Her throat was dry and sore from the drug withdrawal and anerve jumped involuntarily in the corner of her eye.

Her headache felt as though a knotted rope was being twisted slowlytighter around her forehead. "It looks as though Caliph miscalculated.The South Africans aren't going to give in. -" She glanced with asmall anticipatory twist of her lips back through the open door of theflight deck at the four hostages sitting in a row on the fold-downseats. The silver-haired Englishman was smoking a

Virginia cigarette in a long amber and ivory holder, and he returnedher gaze with disdain, so that Ingrid felt a prickle of annoyance andraised her voice so he could hear her next words. "It's going to benecessary to shoot this batch also."

"Caliph has never been wrong before." Karen shook her head vehemently."There is still an hour to deadline-" and at that instant the lightsflickered once and then went out.

With all the portholes shaded the darkness was complete, and the hissof the air-conditioning faded into silence before there was a murmur ofsurprised comment.

Ingrid groped across the control panel for the switch which transferredthe flight deck onto the power from the aircraft's own batteries, andas the soft ruddy glow of the panel lights came on her expression wastense and worried.

"They've switched off the mains," she exclaimed. "The air-conditioningthis could be Delta." W "No." Karen's voice was shrill. "There areno flares."

"We could be-" Ingrid started but she could hear the drunken slur inher own voice. Her tongue felt too large for her mouth, and Karen'sface started to distort before her eyes, the edges blurring out offocus.

"Karen-" she said, and now in her nostrils the unmistakable aroma oftruffles and on her tongue the taste of raw mushrooms.

"Christ!" she screamed wildly and lunged for the manual oxygenrelease. Above each seat the panels dropped open and the emergencyoxygen masks dangled down into the cabins on their corrugated hoses.

"Kurt! Henry!" Ingrid shrieked into the cabin intercom.

"Oxygen! Take oxygen! It's Delta. They are going to Delta." Shegrabbed one of the dangling oxygen masks and sucked in deep pumpingbreaths, cleansing the numbing paralysing gas from her system. In thefirst-class galley one of the hostages collapsed slowly forward andtumbled onto the deck, another slumped sideways.

Still breathing oxygen, Ingrid unslung the camera from around her neck,and Karen watched her with huge terrified dark eyes. She lifted theoxygen mask from her face to ask: "You're not going to blow,

Ingrid?" Ingrid ignored her and used the oxygen in her lungs to shoutinto the microphone.

"Kurt! Henri! They will come as soon as the mains are switched onagain. Cover your eyes and ears for the stun grenades and watch thedoors and wing windows." Ingrid slapped the oxygen mask back over hermouth and panted wildly.

"Don't blow us up, Ingrid!" Karen pleaded around her mask.

"Please, if we surrender Caliph will have us free in a month. We don'thave to die." At that moment the lights of the cabin came onbrightly,

and there was the hiss of the air-conditioning. Ingrid took one lastbreath of oxygen and ran back into the first-class cabin, jumping overthe unconscious figures of the hostages and of two air hostesses. Shegrabbed another of the dangling oxygen masks above a passenger seat andlooked down the long fuselage.

Kurt and Henri had obeyed her orders. They were breathing oxygen fromthe roof panels. The German was ready at the port wing panel, and

Henri waited at the rear doorway hatch both of them had the shortbig-mouthed shot pistols ready, but their faces were covered with theyellow oxygen masks, so Ingrid could not see nor judge theirexpressions.

Only a small number of the passengers had been quick enough andsensible enough to grab the dangling oxygen masks and remain consciousbut hundreds of others slumped in their seats or had fallen sidewaysinto the aisles.

A thicket of dangling, twisting, swinging oxygen hoses filled the cabinlike a forest of ha has obscuring and confusing the scene, and afterthe darkness the cabin lights were painfully bright.

Ingrid held the camera in her free hand, for she knew that they mustcontinue breathing oxygen. It would take the air-conditioning manyminutes longer to cleanse the air of all trace of Factor V, and sheheld a mask over her mouth and waited.

Karen was beside her, with her shot pistol dangling from one hand andthe other pressing a mask to her mouth.

"Go back and cover the front hatch," Ingrid snapped at her.

"There will be-"

"Ingrid, we don't have to die," Karen pleaded, and with a crash theemergency exit panel over the port wing burst inward,

and at the same instant two small dark objects flew threw the darkopening into the cabin.

now in the swift all-engulfing rush of action there were no longerdoubts, no more hesitations he was committed, and it was a tremendoussoaring relief.

He went up over the smooth curved leading edge of the wing with a rollof his shoulders and hips, and in the same movement was on his feet,padding silently down the broad glistening metal pathway. Theraindrops glittered like diamonds under his feet, and a fresh windtugged at his hair as he ran.

He reached the main hull, and dropped into position at the side of thepanel, his fingertips finding the razor-tight joint while hisnumber-two man knelt swiftly opposite him.

The grenade men were ready facing the panel, balanced like acrobats onthe curved slippery upper surface of the great wing.

"Under six seconds." Peter guessed at the time it had taken them toreach this stage from the "go. It was as swift and neat as it hadnever been in training, all of them armed by the knowledge of waitingdeath and horror.

In unison Peter and his number two hurled their combined strength andweight onto the releases of the emergency escape hatch, and it flewinwards readily, for there was no pressurization to resist, and atexactly the same instant the 7 stun grenades went in cleanly, thrown bythe waiting grenade men, and all four members of Peter's team bowedlike Mohammedans in prayer to Mecca, covering eyes and ears.

Even outside the cabin, and even with ears and eyes covered, thethunder of the explosions was appalling, seeming to beat in upon thebrain with oppressive physical force, and the glare of burningphosphorus powder painted an X-ray picture of Peter's own fingers onthe fleshy red of his closed eyelids. Then the grenade men wereshouting into the interior, "Lie down! Everybody down! They wouldkeep repeating that order Israeli sty leas long as it lasted.

Peter was a hundredth of a second slow, numbed by the blast,

fumbling slightly at the butt of the Walther, thumbing the hammer as itsnapped out of the quick-release holster, and then he went in feetfirst through the hatch, like a runner sliding for home base. He wasstill in the air when he saw the girl in the red shirt running forwardbrandishing the camera, and screaming something that made no sense,

though his brain registered it even in that unholy moment.

He fired as his feet touched the deck and his first shot hit the girlin the mouth, punching a dark red hole through the rows of white teethand snapping her head back so viciously that he heard the smalldelicate bones of her neck crack leas they broke.

Ingrid used both arms to cover eyes and ears, crouching forward intothe appalling blast of sound and light that swept through the crowdedcabins like a hurricane wind, and even when it had passed she wasreeling wildly clutching for support at a seat back, trying to steadyherself and judge the moment when the attackers were into the hull.

Those outside the hull would escape the direct force of the explosivesshe was about to detonate; there was a high survival chance for them.She wanted to judge the moment when the entire assault team penetratedthe hull, she wanted maximum casualties, she wanted to take as manywith her as possible, and she lifted the camera above her head withboth hands.

"Come on!" she shrieked, but the cabin was thick with swirling cloudsof white acrid smoke, and the dangling hoses twisted and writhed likethe head of the Medusa. She heard the thunder of a shot pistol andsomebody screamed, voices were chanting, "Lie down" Everybody down"

It was all smoke and sound and confusion, but she watched the darkopening of the emergency hatchway, waiting for it, finger on thedetonator button of the camera.

A supple black-clad figure in a grotesque mask torpedoed feet firstinto the cabin, and at that same instant Karen shrieked beside her.

"No, don't kill us," and snatched the camera from Ingrid's raisedhands, jerking it away by the strap, leaving Ingrid weaponless. Karenran down the aisle through the smoke, still screaming, Don't killus!"

holding the camera like a peace offering. "Caliph said we would notdie." She ran forward screaming frantically. "Caliph-" and theblack-clad and masked figure twisted lithely in the air, arching hisback to land feet first in the centre of the aisle; as his feet touchedthe deck so the pistol in his right hand jerked up sharply but the shotseemed muted and un-warlike after the concussion of the stungrenades.

Karen was running down the aisle towards him, screaming and brandishingthe camera, when the bullet took her in the mouth and wrenched her headbackwards at an impossible angle. The next two shots blended into asingle blurt of sound, fired so swiftly as to cheat the hearing, andfrom such Close range that even the Velex explosive bullets ripped theback out of Karen's shirt and flooded it with a brighter wetter scarletas they erupted from between her shoulder blades. The camera wentspinning high across the cabin, landing in the lap of an unconsciouspassenger slumped in one of the central seats between the aisles.

Ingrid reacted with the instinctive speed of a jungle cat, divingforward, flat on the carpet aisle below the line Of fire; shrouded bythe sinking white smoke of the grenades she wriggled forward on herbelly to reach the camera.

It was twenty feet to where the camera had landed, but Ingrid movedwith the speed of a serpent; she knew that the smoke was hiding her,but she knew also that to reach the camera she would have to come toher feet again and reach across two seats and two unconscious bodies.

Peter landed in balance on the carpeted aisle, and he killed the girlswiftly, and danced aside, clearing space for his number two to land.

The next man landed lightly in the space Peter had made for him,

and the German in the red shirt jumped out from the angle of the reargalley and hit him in the small of the back with a full charge ofbuckshot. It almost blew his body into two separate parts, and heseemed to break in the middle like a folding penknife as he collapsedagainst Peter's legs.

Peter whirled at the shot, turning his back on Ingrid as she crawledforward through the phosphorous smoke.

Kurt was desperately trying to pull down the short, thick barrel of thepistol, for the recoil had thrown it high above his head. His scarletshirt was open to the navel, shiny hard brown muscle and thick whorlsof black body hair, mad glaring eyes through a greasy fringe of blackhair, the scarred lip curled in a fixed snarl.

Peter hit him in the chest, taking no chance, and as he reeledbackwards still fighting to aim the pistol, Peter hit again, in thehead through the temple just in front of the left ear; the eyelidsclosed tightly over those wild eyes, his features twisted out of shapelike a rubber mask and he went down face first into the aisle.

"Two." Peter found that, as always in these desperate moments, he wasfunctioning very coldly, very efficiently.

His shooting had been as reflexively perfect as if he were walking acombat shoot with jump-up cardboard targets.

He had even counted his shots, there were four left in the

Walther.

"And two more of them," he thought, but the smoke was still so thickthat his visibility was down to under fifteen feet, and the swirlingforest of dangling oxygen hose still agitated by the grenade blasts cutdown his visibility further.

He jumped over the broken body of his number two, the blood squelchingunder his rubber soles, and suddenly the chunky black figure of ColinNoble loomed across the cabin.

He was in the far aisle, having come in over the starboard wing.

In the writhing smoke he looked like some demon from the pit, hideousand menacing in his gas mask. He dropped into the marksman's crouch,

holding the big Browning in a double-handed grip, and the clangour ofthe gun beat upon the air like one of the great bronze bells of NotreDame.

He was shooting at another scarlet-shirted figure, half seen throughthe smoke and the dangling hoses, a man with a round boyish face anddrooping sandy mustache. The big Velex bullets tore the hijacker topieces with the savagery of a predator's claws. They seemed to pin himlike an insect to the central bulkhead, and they smashed chunks ofliving flesh from his chest and splinters of white bone from hisskull.

"Three," thought Peter. "One left now and I must get the camera." Hehad seen the black camera in the hands of the girl he had killed, hadseen it fall, and he knew how deadly important it was to secure thedetonator before it fell into the hands of the other girl,

the blonde one, the dangerous one.

It had been only four seconds since he had penetrated the hull,

yet it seemed like a dragging eternity. He could hear the crash of theslap-hammers tearing out the door locks, both fore and aft. Withinseconds there would be Thor assault teams pouring into the Boeingthrough every opening, and he had not yet located the fourth hijacker,the truly dangerous one.

"Get down! Everybody down!" chanted the grenade men, and Peter spunlightly, and ran for the flight deck. He was certain the blonde girlwould be there at the control centre.

Then, in front of him lay the girl he had shot down, the long,

dark hair spread out around her pale, still terrified face. Her hairwas already sodden with dark blood, and the black gap in her whiteteeth made her look like an old woman. She blocked the aisle with atangle of slim boneless limbs.

The forward hatch crashed open as the lock gave way, but there werestill solid curtains of white smoke ahead of him. Peter gatheredhimself to jump over the girl's body, and at that instant the othergirl, the blonde girl, bounded up from the deck, seeming to appearmiraculously from the smoke, like some beautiful but evil apparition.

She dived half across the block of central seating, groping for thecamera, and Peter was slightly off balance, blocking himself in theturn to bring his gun hand on to her. He changed hands smoothly, forhe was equally accurate with either, but it cost him the tenth part ofa second, and the girl had the strap of the camera now and was tuggingdesperately at it. The camera seemed to be snagged, and Peter swung onher, taking the head shot for she was less than ten paces away, andeven in the smoke and confusion he could not miss.

One of the few passengers who had been breathing oxygen from hishanging mask, and was still conscious, ignored the chanted orders "Getdown! Stay down!" and suddenly stumbled to his feet, screaming,"Don't shoot! Get me out of here! Don't shoot!" in a risinghysterical scream.

He was directly between Peter and the red-shirted girl, blocking

Peter's field of fire, and Peter wrenched the gun off him at the momentthat he fired. The bullet slammed into the roof, and the passengerbarged into Peter, still screaming.

"Get me out! I want to get out!" Peter tried desperately to clear hisgun hand, for the girl had broken the strap of the camera and wasfumbling with the black box. The passenger had an arm around Peter'sgun arm, was shaking him wildly, weeping and screaming.

From across the central block of seats, Colin Noble fired once.

He was still in the starboard aisle and the angle was almostimpossible, for he had to shoot nine inches past Peter's shoulder, andthrough the forest of dangling hose.

His first shot missed, but it was close enough to flinch the girl'shead violently, the golden hair flickered with the passage of shot, andshe stumbled backwards, groping with clumsy fingers for thedetonator.

Peter chopped the hysterical passenger in the throat with the stiffenedfingers of his right hand and hurled him back into his seat,

trying desperately to line up for a shot at the girl knowing he mustget the brain and still her fingers instantly.

Colin fired his second shot, one hundredth of a second before

Peter, and the big bullet flung the girl aside, jerking her head out ofthe track of Peter's shot.

Peter saw the strike of Colin's bullet, it hit her high in the rightshoulder, almost in the oint of the scapula and the humerus,

shattering the bone with such force that her arm was flung upwards in aparody of a communist salute, twisting unnaturally and whipping aboveher head; once again the camera was flung aside and the girl's body wasthrown violently backwards down the aisle as though she had been hit bya speeding automobile.

Peter picked his shot, waiting for a clean killing hit in the head asthe girl tried to drag herself upright but before he could fire, a massof black-costumed figures swarmed out of the smoke, and covered thegirl, pinning her kicking and screaming on the carpet of the aisle.

The Thor team had come in through the forward hatch, just in time tosave her life, and Peter clipped the Walther into his holster andstooped to pick up the camera gingerly. Then he pulled off his maskwith his other hand.

"That's it. That's all of them, he shouted. "We got them all.

Cease fire. It's all over." Then into the microphone of thetransceiver, "Touch down! Touch down!" The code for total success.

Three of his men were holding the girl down, and despite the massivespurting wound in her shoulder, she fought like a leopard in a trap.

"Get the emergency chutes down," Peter ordered, and from each exit thelong plastic slides inflated and drooped to the tarmac already his menwere leading the conscious passengers to the exits and helping theminto the slide.

From the terminal building a dozen ambulances with sirens howling,

gunned out across the tarmac. The back-up members of Thor were runningout under the glare of floodlights, cheering thinly. "Touch down!

Touch down!" Like prehistoric monsters the mechanical stairwayslumbered down from the northern apron, to give access to the body ofthe Boeing.

Peter stepped up to the girl, still holding the camera in his hands,and he stood looking down at her. The icy coldness of battle stillgripped him, his mind felt needle sharp and his vision clear,

every sense enhanced.

The girl stopped struggling, and looked back at him. The image of atrapped leopard was perfect. Peter had never seen eyes so fierce andmerciless, as she glared at him. Then she drew her head back like acobra about to strike, and spat at him. White frothy spittlesplattered down the front of Peter's legs.

Thanksgiving!" And Peter knew she was right. "The punishment that abefuddled world society meted out to these people was i usually only afew months" imprisonment, and that often suspended. He remembered thefeel of the dying child in his arms,

the warm trickle of her blood running over his belly and legs.

"My people will come for me," the girl spat again, this time into theface of one of the men who held her down.

"You will never hold me. My people will force you to free me."

Again she was right, her capture was a direct invitation for furtheratrocity, the wheel of vengeance and retribution was set in motion.

For the life of this trapped and vicious predator, hundreds more wouldsuffer, and dozens more would die.

The reaction was setting in now, the battle rage abating, and

Peter felt the nausea cloying his bowels. It had been in vain, hethought; he had thrown away a lifetime's strivings and endeavour to winonly a temporary victory. He had checked the forces of evil, notbeaten them and they would regroup and attack again, stronger and morecunning than ever, and this woman would lead them again.

"We are the revolution." The girl lifted her uninjured arm in theclenched fist salute. "We are the power. Nothing, nobody can stopus." When this woman had fired a load of buckshot through the swollenbody of the pregnant woman it had distorted her shape completely. Theimage was recaptured entire and whole in Peter's memory, the way shehad burst open like the pod of a ripe fruit.

The blonde woman shook the clenched fist into Peter's face.

"This is only the beginning the new era has begun." There was a tauntand a sneering threat in her voice, uttered in complete confidence andPeter knew it was not misplaced. There was a new force unleashed inthe world, something more deadly than he had believed Possible, andPeter had no illusions as to the role that blind fortune had played inhis small triumph. He had no illusion either that the beast was morethan barely wounded; next time it would be more powerful, more cunning,having learned from this inconsequential failure and with the reactionfrom battle came a powerful wave of dread and despair that seemed tooverwhelm his soul. It had all been in vain.

"You can never win," taunted the woman, splattered with her own blood,but undaunted and unrepentant, seeming to read his very thoughts.

"And we can never lose," she shrieked.

Gentlemen." The South African Prime Minister spoke with painfuldeliberation. "My cabinet and I are firmly of the opinion that toaccede to the terrorists" demands is to take a seat on the back of thetiger, from which we will never be able to dismount." He stopped, hunghis great granite-hewn head for a moment and then looked up at the twoambassadors. "However, such is the duty we owe to humanity and thedignity of human life, and such is the pressure which two great nationscan bring to bear upon one much smaller, that we have decidedunanimously to agree in full to all the conditions necessary for therelease of the women and children, -" A telephone on the table top infront of the American Ambassador began to shrill irritatingly, andthe

Prime Minister paused, frowned slightly.

"However, we place complete faith in the undertaking given by yourgovernments-" He stopped again for the telephone insisted. You hadbetter answer that, sir! he told Kelly Constable.

"Excuse me, Prime Minister." The American lifted the receiver, and ashe listened an expression of utter disbelief slowly changed hisfeatures. "Hold the line, "he said into the receiver, and then,

covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he looked up. "Prime Ministerit is a very great pleasure to inform you that three minutes ago the

Thor assault team broke into Flight 070 and killed three of theterrorists they wounded and captured a fourth terrorist, but there wereno casualties among the passengers. They got them all out, every lastone of them. Safe and sound." The big man at the head of the tablesagged with relief in his seat, and as the storm of jubilation andself, congratulation broke about him, he started to smile. It was asmile that transformed his forbidding features, the smile of anessentially fatherly and kindly man. "Thank you, sir," he said, stillsmiling. "Thank you very much."

"My concern was entirely with the lives of hostages and the force ofmoral law." Peter answered him quietly; it was less than fifteenminutes since he had penetrated the hull of the Boeing in a blaze offire and fury.

His hands were still shaking slightly and the nausea still lay heavilyon his guts.

"You deliberately disobeyed my specific orders." Parker was an enragedlion, the mane of thick shot-silver hair seemed to bristle, and heglowered from the screen; the vast power of his personality seemed tofill the command cabin of the Hawker. "I have always had gravereservations as to your suitability for the high command with which youhave formal been entrusted. I have already expressed thosereservations in writing to your superiors, and they have been fullyjustified."

"I

understand by all this that I have been removed from command ofThor,"

Peter cut in brusquely, his anger seething to the surface, and Parkerchecked slightly.

Peter knew that even Kingston Parker could not immediately fire thehero of such a successful counter-strike. It would take time, a matterof days, perhaps, but Peter's fate was sealed. There could be no doubtof that, and Parker went on to confirm this.

"You will continue to exercise command under my direct surveillance.You will make no decision without referring directly back to me, nodecision whatsoever. Do you understand that, General

Stride?" Peter did not bother to reply; he felt a wildly reckless moodstarting to buoy his sagging spirits, a sense of freedom and choice ofaction such as he had never known before.

For the first time in his career he had deliberately disobeyed asuperior officer, and luck or not, the outcome had been a brilliantsuccess.

"Your first duty now will be to withdraw all Thor units, and swiftlyand in as good an order as possible. The militant you have taken willbe returned to London for questioning and trial-"

"Her crimes were committed here. She should be tried here for murder

I

have already had demands from the local-"

"Arrangements are being made with the South African authorities."Parker's anger had not abated but he had it better under control. "Shewill return to Britain aboard your command aircraft, with the Thordoctor in attendance." Peter remembered what had happened to theterrorist Leila Khaled, dragged from the El Al airliner where she wasbeing held by Israeli security agents. As a guest of the Britishpolice, she had spent six short days in captivity, and then beenreleased in a blaze of publicity and glory,

heroine of the communications media, Joan of Arc of terror released toplan and execute the death and destruction of hundreds moreinnocents,

to lead the attack on the foundations of civilization, to shake thecolumns that held aloft the rule of law and society.

"I want this woman in London within twenty-four hours.

She is to be strictly guarded at all times against retaliation.

We cannot afford another blood bath like the one you led on 070."

Peter Stride walked very erect, very tall into the echoing,

marble-columned domestic departures hall of the airport, and his mencalled to him as he came.

"Well done, sir."

"Great stuff, General."

"Way to go-" AM They were tending the released passengers,re-assembling their scattered gear, dismantling the security andcommunications equipment and packing it away within the hour they wouldbe ready to pull out but now they left their tasks to crowd about him,competing to shake his hand.

The passengers realized that this must be the architect of theirsalvation and they cheered him as he passed slowly through the hall,

and now he was smiling, acknowledging their pitiful gratitude, stoppingto talk with an old lady, and submitting to her tearful embrace.

"God bless you, my boy. God bless you." And her body trembled againsthim. Gently Peter set her aside and went on, and though he smiled itwas with his lips only, for there was steel in his heart.

There were Thor guards on the main administrative offices on themezzanine floor armed with submachine guns, but they stood aside forhim and Peter went through.

Colin Noble was still in his black skin-tight assault suit with the big.45 on his hip, and a cheroot clamped between his teeth.

"Take a look at this lot," he called to Peter. The desk was coveredwith explosives and weapons. "Most of it's ironcurtain stuff but Godalone knows where they got these." He indicated the double-barrelledshot pistols. "If they had these custom built, it would have cost themplenty."

"They have got plenty," Peter answered drily. "The ransom for the OPECministers was one hundred and fifty million dollars, for the Braunbrothers twenty five million, for Baron

Altmann another twenty million that's the defence budget for a nation."He picked up one of the shot pistols and opened the breech.

It had been unloaded.

"Is this the one she used to gun down the hostages?" Colin shrugged."Probably, it's been fired through both barrels." Colin was right,there were black specks of burned powder down the short smooth bores.

Peter loaded it with buckshot cartridges from the pile on the desk, andwalked on down the long office with the covered typewriters on thedeserted desks and the airline travel posters decorating the wall.

Along one wall the three bodies of the hijackers were laid out in aneat row, each encapsulated in its separate translucent plasticenvelope.

Two Thor men were assembling the contents of their pockets personaljewellery, meagre personal effects and they were packing them intolabelled plastic bags.

The body of Peter's Number Two was against the far wall, also in hisplastic body-bag, and Peter stooped over him. Through the plastic hecould make out the features of the dead man's face. The eyes were wideand the jaw hung open slackly. Death is always so undignified,

Peter thought, and straightened up.

Still carrying the shot pistol, Peter went on into the inner office,and Colin Noble followed him.

They had the girl on another stretcher, a plasma drip suspended aboveher, and the Thor doctor and his two orderlies were working over herquietly, but the young doctor looked up irritably as Peter pushed openthe door, then his expression changed as he recognized Peter.

"General, if we are going to save this arm, I have to get her intotheatre pretty damned quickly. The joint of the shoulder isshattered-" The girl rolled the lovely head towards Peter. The thickspringing golden hair was matted with drying blood, and there was asmear of it across one cheek.

Now her face was completely drained of all colour, like the head of anangel carved out of white marble. The skin had a waxen, almosttranslucent, lustre and only the eyes were still fierce, not dulled bythe painkilling drugs that they had injected into her.

I have asked the South Africans for co-operation-" the doctor went on,they have two top orthopaedic surgeons standing by, and they haveoffered a helicopter to fly her into the Central Hospital atEdenvale."

Already she was being treated, even by Thor, as the major celebrity shewas. She had taken her first step along the rose-strewn pathway toglory, and Peter could imagine how the media would extol her beautythey had gone berserk with extravagant praise for the swarthyferrety-eyed Leila Khaled with her fine dark mustache they would goover the top for this one.

Peter had never known any emotion so powerful as the emotion thatgripped him now.

"Get out," he said to the doctor.

Sir? "The man looked startled.

"Get out," Peter repeated, "all of you." And he waited until theopaque glass door closed behind them, before he spoke to the girl inconversational tones.

"You have made me abandon my own principles, and descend to yourlevel." The girl watched him uncertainly, her eyes flickered to theshot pistol that Peter held dangling from his right hand.

"You have forced me, a career soldier, to disobey the orders of asuperior officer in the face of the enemy." He paused. "I used to bea proud man, but when I have done what I must do now I will no longerhave much of which to be proud."

"I demand to see the American

Ambassador," said the girl huskily, still watching the pistol. "I aman American citizen. I demand the protection-" Peter interruptedher,

again speaking quickly. "This is not revenge. I am old and wiseenough to know that revenge has the most bitter taste of all humanexcesses."

"You cannot do it-" The girl's voice rose, the same strident tones, butnow shriller still with fear. "They will destroy you." But

Peter went on as though she had not spoken. "It is not revenge, herepeated. "You, yourself, gave the reason clearly. If you continue toexist, they will come to get you back. As long as you live, othersmust die and they will die stripped of all human dignity. They willdie in terror, the same way you murdered-"

"I am a woman. I am wounded. I am a prisoner of war," screamed thegirl, trying to struggle upright.

"Those are the old rules, Peter told her. "You tore up the book,

and wrote a new one I am playing to your rules now. I have beenreduced to your level."

"You'd better get out now." Colin Noble hesitated, his right hand onthe butt of the Browning, and the girl rolled her head towards himimploringly.

"You can't let him do it."

"Peter, -" Colin said.

"You were right Colin." Peter spoke quietly. "That kid did look a lotlike Melissa-Jane." Colin Noble dropped his hand from the pistol andturned to the door. Now the girl was shrieking obscenity and threat,her voice incoherent with terror and hatred.

Colin closed the door softly and stood with his back to it. The singlecrash of shot was shockingly loud, and the stream of filthy abuse wascut off abruptly. The silence was even more appalling than theharrowing sounds which had preceded it. Colin did not move. He waitedfour, five seconds before the door clicked open and General

Peter Stride came out into the main office. He handed the shot pistolto Colin and one barrel was hot in his hand.

Peter's handsome aristocratic features seemed ravaged, as though by along wasting disease. The face of a man who had leapt into theabyss.

Peter Stride left the glass door open, and walked away without lookingback. Despite the terrible expression of despair, he still carriedhimself like a soldier and his tread was firm.

Colin Noble did not even look through the open door.

"All right," he called to the doctor. "She's all yours now." And hefollowed Peter Stride down the broad staircase.

There was a long hard gallop over good going and open pasture to thecrest of the ridge, with only one gate. Melissa-Jane led on her bayfilly, her Christmas gift from Uncle Steven. She was in the midst ofthe passionate love affair that most pubescent girls have with horses,and she looked truly good astride the glistening thoroughbred.

The cold struck high colour into her cheeks and the braid ofhoney-coloured hair thumped gaily down her back at each stride. Shehad blossomed even in the few weeks since last Peter had seen her andhe realized with some awe and considerable pride that she was fastbecoming a great beauty.

Peter was up on one of Steven's hunters, a big rangy animal with thestrength to carry his weight, but the gelding was slogging hard to holdthe flying pair that danced ahead of him.

At the hedge, Melissa-Jane scorned the gate, gathered the filly withfine strong hands and took her up and over.

Her little round bottom lifted out of the saddle as she leaned into thejump, and clods of black earth flew from the filly's hooves.

As soon as she was over she swivelled in the saddle to watch him,

and Peter realized that he was under challenge.

The hedge immediately appeared to be head-high and he noticed for thefirst time how the ground fell away at a steep angle beyond. He hadnot ridden for almost two years, and it was the first time he had beenup on this gelding but the horse went for the jump gamely, and theybrushed the top of the hedge, landed awkwardly, stumbled with

Peter up on his neck for an appalling instant of time in which he wasconvinced he was to take a toss in front of his daughter's criticaleye; caught his balance, held the gelding's head up and they came awaystill together.

"Super-Star!" Melissa-Jane shouted laughing, and by the time he caughther she had dismounted under the yew tree at the crest, and was waitingfor him with her breath steaming in the crisp calm air.

"Our land once went right as far as the church-" Peter pointed to thedistant grey needle of stone that pricked the belly of the sky, " andthere almost to the top of the downs." He turned to point in theopposite direction.

"Yes." Melissa-Jane slipped her arm through his as they stood closetogether under the yew. "The family had to sell it when

Grandfather died. You told me. And that's right too. One familyshouldn't own so much." Peter glanced down at her, startled. "MyGod,

a comrnu rust in the family. An asp in the bosom." She squeezed hisarm. "Don't worry, Daddy darling. It's Uncle Steven who is thebloated plutocrat. You're not a capitalist you aren't even employedany more-" And the instant she had said it, her laughter collapsedaround her and she looked stricken. Oh, I didn't mean that. I trulydidn't." It was almost a month now since Peter's resignation had beenaccepted by the War Office, but the scandal had not yet run out ofsteam.

The first heady paeans of praise for the success of Thor's Delta strikehad lasted only a few days. The glowing editorials, the full frontpages, the lead news item on every television channel, the effusivemessages of congratulations from the leaders of the Westerngovernments, the impromptu triumph for Peter Stride and his little bandof heroes, had quickly struck an odd note, a sudden souring of theecstasies.

The racist Government of South Africa had actually agreed to therelease of political prisoners before the assault, one of the hijackershad been taken alive, and died of gunshot wounds received in theterminal buildings. Then one of the released hostages, a freelancejournalist who had been covering the medical convention in Mauritiusand was returning aboard the hijacked aircraft, published a sensationaleye-witness account of the entire episode, and a dozen other passengerssupported his claims that there had been screams from the fourthhijacker, screams for mercy, before she was shot to death after hercapture.

A storm of condemnation and vilification from the extreme left of theBritish Labour Government had swept through the Westminster parliament,and had been echoed by the Democrats in the American

Congress. The very existence of the Thor Command had come underscrutiny and been condemned in extravagant tenons. The Communistparties of France and Italy had marched, and the detonation of an

M-26

hand grenade one of those stolen by the Baader-Meinhof gang from the

American base in Metz amongst the crowd leaving the Parc des Princesfootball stadium in Paris had killed one and injured twenty-three. A

telephone call to the offices of France Soir by a man speakingaccented

French claimed that this fresh atrocity was revenge for the murder offour hijackers by the Imperialist execution squad.

Pressure for Peter's discharge had come initially from the

Pentagon, and there was very little doubt that Dr. Kingston Parker wasthe accuser, though, as head of Atlas, he was never identified, totalsecrecy still surrounding the project.

The media had begun to demand an investigation of all the circumstancessurrounding Thor. And if it is ascertained that criminalirregularities did indeed exist in the conduct of the operation, thatthe person or persons responsible be brought to trial either by amilitary tribunal or the civil courts." Fortunately the media had notyet unravelled the full scope of Atlas Command. Only Thor was underscrutiny; they did not yet suspect the existence of either Mercury or

Diana.

Within the War Office and the governments of both America and

Britain, there had been much sympathy and support for Peter Stride buthe had made it easier for his friends and for himself by rendering hisresignation. The resignation had been accepted, but still the left wasclamouring for more. They wanted blood, Peter Stride's blood Now

"One thing about being out of a job I have more time to be with myfavourite girl." He smiled down at her, but she would not bemollified.

"I don't believe the horrible things they are saying. I know you are aman of honour, Daddy."

"Thank you." And he felt the ache of it,

the guilt and the sorrow. They were silent a little longer, stillstanding close together, and Peter spoke first.

"You are going to be a palaeontologist-'he said.

"No. That was last month. I've changed my mind. I'm not interestedin old bones any more. Now I'm going to be a doctor, a childspecialist."

"That's good." Peter nodded gravely. "But let's go back to old bonesfor a moment. The age of the great reptiles. The dinosaurs why didthey fade into extinction?"

"They could not adapt to a changing environment." Melissa-jane had theanswer promptly.

Peter murmured," - A concept like honour. Is it outdated in today'sworld, I wonder?" Then he saw the puzzlement, the hurt in her eyes,and he knew they had wandered onto dangerous ground. His daughter hada burning love for all living things, particularly human beings.Despite her age, she had a developed political and social conscience,distinguished by total belief in shining ideals and the essentialbeauty and goodness of mankind. There would be time in the years aheadfor the agony of disillusion. The term "man or woman of honour" wasMelissa-Jane's ultimate accolade.

No matter that it could be applied to any of her current heroes orheroines the Prince of Wales, or the singer of popular songs with anoutrageous name that Peter could never remember, to Virginia Wade, theformer Wimbledon champion, or to the Fifth Form science teacher at

Roedean who had aroused Melissa-Jane's interest in medicine, Peter knewthat he should feel proper gratitude for being included in this exaltedcompany.

"I will try to live up to your opinion of me." He stooped and kissedher, surprised at the strength of his love for this child-woman.

"And now it's too cold to stand here any longer, and Pat will neverforgive us if we are late for lunch." They clattered over the stonecobbles of the stable yard, riding knee to knee, and before hedismounted, Peter indulged himself in the pleasure of his favouriteview of the house that had always been home, even though it belongednow, together with the title, to Steven, the older brother, older bythree hours only, but older none the less.

The house was red brick with a roof that ran at fifty differentunlikely angles. It missed being hideous by a subtle margin andachieved a fairytale enchantment. Peter could never grudge it to

Steven, who loved the sprawling edifice with something close topassion.

Perhaps the desire to own the house and to restore it to its formermagnificence was the goad which had pricked Steven to the superhumaneffort that a British resident must make against taxation and socialistrestrictions in order to amass anything like a fortune.

Steven had made that effort and now Abbots Yew stood immaculate andwell-beloved in glorious gardens, and Sir Steven kept baronial style.

His affairs were so complicated, spread over so many continents thateven the British taxman must have been daunted. Peter had once skirtedthis subject with his twin brother, and Steven had replied quietly.

"When a law is patently unjust, such as our tax law is, it's the dutyof an honest man to subvert it." Peter's old-fashioned sense ofrightness had baulked at such logic, but he let it pass.

It was strange that it had worked this way for the two brothers,

for Peter had always been the brilliant one, and the family had alwaysreferred to "Poor Steven'. Nobody was very surprised when Stevenleft

Sandhurst amid dark whispers halfway through his final year but twoyears later Steven was already a millionaire while Peter was a lowlysecond lieutenant in the British Army. Peter grinned without rancourat the memory. He had always been particularly fond of his elderbrother but at that moment his train of thought was interrupted as hiseye caught the mirror-like finish of the silver limousine parked at theend of the stable yard. It was one of those long Mercedes-Benzfavoured by pop stars, Arab oil men, or heads of staTe, The chauffeurwas uniformed in sober navy blue and was busy burnishing the paintworkto an even higher gloss. Even Steven did not run to that sort oftransportation, and Peter felt mildly intrigued. House guests atAbbots Yew were always interesting. Steven Stride did not concernhimself with those who did not wield either power, wealth orextraordinary talent. Beyond the Mercedes 600 was parked anothersmaller model; this one was black and the two men in it had the hardclosed faces that marked them as bodyguards.

Melissa-Jane rolled her eyes at the automobile. "Another bloatedplutocrat, I expect," she muttered. It was the currently favoured termof extreme disapproval, a great advance on "grotty" which had precededit, Peter could not help thinking as he helped his daughter unsaddleand then rub down the horses. They went up through the rose garden,

arm in arm, and then laughing together into the main drawing-room.

"Peter old boy!" Steven came to meet him, as tall as his brother,

and once he had been as lean, but good living had thickened his bodywhile at the same time the strains of being a professional deal makerhad greyed his hair at the temples and laced his mustache with silverbristles. His face was not quite a mirror image of Peter's, slightlymore fleshy and florid but the twin resemblance was still stronglymarked, and now his face was alive with pleasure.

Now he turned to Melissa-Jane and hugged her with barely a touch ofincestuous pleasure. "How did Florence Nightingale go?"

"She's a darling, Uncle Steven. I will never be able to thank you."

"Peter, I

would like you to meet a very charming lady-" She had been talking to

Patricia Stride, Steven's wife, and now as she turned, the wintersunshine through the bay windows behind lit her with a soft romanticaura.

Peter felt as though the earth had tilted under his feet, and a fistclosed around his ribs constricting his breathing and inhibiting theaction of his heart.

He recognized her immediately from the photographs in the official fileduring the long-drawn-out kidnapping and subsequent murder of herhusband. At one stage it had seemed that the kidnappers had crossedthe Channel with their victim, and Thor had gone to condition Alpha foralmost a week. Peter had studied the photographs that had beenassembled from a dozen sources, but even the glossy coloured portraitsfrom Vogue and Jours de France had not been able to capture themagnificence of the woman.

Surprisingly, he saw his own immediate recognition reflected.

There was no change in her expression, but it flared briefly likedark-green emerald fire in her eyes. There was no question in Peter'smind but that she had recognized him, and as he stepped "towards her herealized she was tall, but the fine proportion of her body had not madethat immediately apparent. Her skirt was of a fine wool crepe whichmoulded the long, stately legs of a dancer.

"Baroness, may I present my brother. General Stride."

"How do you do General." Her English was almost perfect, a low huskyvoice, the slight accent very attractive, but she pronounced his rankas three distinct syllables.

"Peter, this is Baroness Altmann." Her thick glossy black hair wasscraped back severely from the forehead with a perfect arrowhead ofwidow's peak at the centre, emphasizing the high Slavic cheekbones andthe unblemished perfection of her skin but her jawline was too squareand strong for beauty, and the mouth had an arrogant determined line toit. Magnificent, but not beautiful and Peter found himself violentlyattracted. The breathless wholesale feeling he had not experienced fortwenty years.

She seemed to epitomize everything he admired in a woman.

Her body was in the condition of a trained athlete.

Beneath the oyster silk of her blouse her arms were delicately sculptedfrom toned muscle, the waist narrow, the breasts very small andunfettered, their lovely shape pressing clearly through fine material,her clean lightly tanned skin glowed with health and careful grooming.All this contributed to his attraction.

However, the greater part was in Peter's own mind. He knew she was awoman of extraordinary strength and achievement, that was pureaphrodisiac for him, and she exuded also the challenging air of beingun-attainable. The regal eyes mocked his evident masculinity with theuntouchable aloofness of a queen or a goddess. She seemed to besmiling inwardly, a cool patronizing smile at his admiration,

which she realized was no more than her due.

Quickly Peter reviewed what he knew of her.

She had begun her association with the Baron as his private secretary,and in five years had become indispensable to him. The

Baron had recognized her ability by rapidly elevating her to the boardsof directors, first of some of the group's lesser subsidiaries, andfinally to that of the central holding company. When the Baron'sphysical strength had begun to decline in his losing battle with aninexorable cancer, he came to rely more upon her, trust well placed asit soon turned out. For she ran the complex empire of heavy industrialcompanies, of electronics and armaments corporations, of banking andshipping and property developments, like the son he never had. When hemarried her he was fifty-eight years of age, almost thirty years hersenior, and she had been a perfect wife as she had been a perfectbusiness partner.

She had assembled and personally delivered the massive ransom demandedby his abductors, against the advice of the French police,

going alone and unguarded to a meeting with killers, and when they hadreturned the Baron's fearfully mutilated corpse to her,

she had mourned him and buried him and continued to run the empire shehad inherited, with vision and strength so far beyond her years.

She was twenty-nine years old. No, that had been two years ago,

Peter realized, as he bowed over her hand, not quite touching thesmooth cool fingers with his lips. She would be thirty-one years oldnow. She wore a single ring on her wedding finger, a solitairediamond, not a particularly large diamond, not more than six carats butof such a perfect whiteness and fire that it seemed to be endowed withits own life. It was the choice of a woman of immense wealth and evengreater style.

As Peter straightened, he realized that she was appraising him ascarefully as he was her. It seemed that he would be unable to concealanything from those slanted emerald eyes, but he returned her gazesteadily, knowing without conceit that he could withstand any suchscrutiny; still intrigued, however, with the certainty that she hadknown him.

"Your name has been much in the news recently she said, as if inexplanation.

There were sixteen for lunch, including Steven and Pat's three childrenand Melissa-Jane. It was a happy, relaxed meal, but the

Baroness was seated at a distance that made it impossible for Peter tospeak directly to her, and though he strained to follow herconversation, her voice was low and addressed mostly to Steven and theeditor of one of the national daily newspapers who flanked her. Peterfound himself fully occupied in fending off the breathless attention ofthe pretty but feather brained blonde on his left. She was a starletwho had married well and divorced even better.

She had been handpicked by Pat Stride. Peter's sister-inlaw wasindefatigable in her efforts to find him a suitable replacement for

Cynthia. Twelve years of straight failures had not daunted her in theleast.

There was still time for Peter to notice that though the Baronesssipped once or twice at her wine, the level in the glass never fell,

and she picked only lightly at her plate.

Though Peter watched her covertly, the Baroness never glanced once inhis direction. It was only as they went through for coffee that shecame directly and unaffectedly to his side.

"Steven tells me there are Roman ruins on the estate, she said.

"I could show them to you. It is a lovely walk up through thewoods."

"Thank you. I do have some business to discuss with Steven beforethat; shall we meet at three o'clock?" She had changed into a loosetweed skirt and jacket that would have looked bulky on a shorter orplumper woman, and high boots in the same lavender tinted brown.

Under it she wore a cashmere roll-neck jersey, and a scarf of the samefine wool hung down her back. A wide-brimmed hat with a bright featherin the band was pulled down over her eyes.

She walked in silence, hands thrust deeply into the big pockets of herjacket, making no effort to protect the expensive boots from mud,

thorns or damp bracken. She moved with a flowing, long-legged grace,

swinging from the hips so that her shoulder and head seemed to floatbeside Peter, at a not much lower level than his own. Had she not beena world leader in finance and industry, she might have made a greatmodel, he decided. She had a talent for making clothes look importantand elegant, while treating them with indifference.

Peter respected her silence, pleased to be able to step out to matchher pace, as they went up through the dark dripping woods that smelt ofleaf mould and cold rain, the oaks bare and moss-pelted,

seeming to beseech a purple grey sky with arthritic limbs held high.

They came out on the higher open ground without having stopped once,although the path had been steep and the ground soft underfoot.

She was breathing deeply but evenly, and she had coloured justsufficiently to flatter the high Slavic cheeks.

She must be in peak physical condition, he thought.

"Here they are." Peter indicated the barely discernible grass-coveredditch that circled the hilltop. "They are not very impressive, but Ididn't want to warn you in advance She smiled now.

"I have been here before," she said in that intriguing husky accent.

"Well, we are off to a flying start. We have both deceived each otherat our first meeting-" Peter chuckled.

"I came all the way from Paris, she explained. "It was mostinconvenient really the business I had to discuss with Sir Steven couldhave been completed by telephone in five minutes. What I had todiscuss with you could only be done face by face-" She correctedherself immediately.

"I am sorry, face to face" It was a rare slip. Steven had beenstrangely insistent that Peter spend this particular weekend atAbbots

Yew, and was certainly party to this encounter.

"I am flattered by the interest of such a beautiful lady-"

Instantly she frowned, and with a gesture of irritation cut short thecompliment as frivolous.

"Very recently you were approached by the Narmco section of

Seddler StLel with an offer to head their Sales Division," she said,

and Peter nodded. Since his resignation had been accepted by the War

Office, there had been many offers. "The terms of employment offeredwere extraordinarily generous."

"That is true."

"You prefer the cloistered academic life, perhaps?" she asked, andthough Peter's expression did not change, he was taken off balance. Itseemed impossible that she could know of the offer of the Chair ofModern

Military History that he had been offered by a leading Americanuniversity, an offer with which he was still toying idly.

"There are some books I want to read and write," Peter said.

"Books. You have an important collection, and I have read those youhave written. You are an interesting contradiction, General

Stride. The man of direct action, and at the same time of deeppolitical and social thought."

"I confuse myself at times," Peter smiled. "So what chance do you haveto understand me?" She did not rise to the smile. "A great deal ofyour writing coincides with my own conviction. As for your action, ifI had been a man and in your position, I might have acted as you did."Peter stiffened, resenting any allusion to the taking of Flight 070,and again she seemed to understand instinctively.

"I refer to your entire career, General. From Cyprus to

Johannesburg and including Ireland." And he relaxed slightly.

"Why did you refuse the Narmco offer? "she asked.

"Because it was presented with the unstated conviction that I

could not refuse. Because the terms were so generous that they left astrange unsatisfying odour in my nostrils.

Because I believe that I would have been required to perform duties inline with the reputation I seem to have acquired since the taking ofFlight 070."

"What reputation is that?" She leaned slightly towards him, and hesmelled her particular aroma. The way perfume reacted upon that petally-smooth skin, heated by the exertion of the climb up the hill. Shesmelled faintly of crushed lemon blossom and clean healthy maturewoman.

He felt himself physically aroused by it, and had an almost undesirableimpulse to reach out and touch her, to feel the warmth and glossinessof her skin.

A man who makes accommodations, perhaps, he answered, "What did youthink you might have been asked to do?" This time he shrugged.

"Perhaps carry bribes to my onetime colleagues in NATO Command, toinduce them to consider favourably the products of Narmco."

"Why would you believe that?"

"I was once a decision making officer in that

Command." She turned away from him and looked out across the specialgreens of an English winter landscape, the orderly fields andpastures,

the dark wedges and geometrical shapes of the woods and copses.

"Do you know that through Altmann Industries and other companies I

control a majority shareholding in Seddler Steel, and naturally in

Narmco?"

"No," Peter admitted. "But I cannot say I am surprised."

"Did you know that the offer from Narmco was in reality from mepersonally?"

This time he said nothing.

"You are quite right, of course, your contacts with the upper echelonof NATO and with the British and American high commands would have beenworth every centime of the extravagant salary you were offered. As forbribes-" She smiled then suddenly, and it altered her face entirely,making her seem many years younger, and there was a warmth and a senseof fun that he would not have suspected, this is a capitalist society,General. We prefer to talk about commissions and introducer's fees."He found himself smiling back at her, not because of what she had said,but simply because her smile was irresistible.

"However, I give you my solemn word that you would never have beenexpected to offer or carry, no, since Lockheed were indiscreet, it haschanged. Nothing disreputable could ever be traced back to Narmco, andcertainly not to the top men there. Certainly not to you."

"It's all academic now, , Peter pointed out. "I've refused theoffer."

"I disagree, General Stride. The brim of the hat covered her eyes asshe looked down. "I hope that when you hear what I had hoped toachieve you may reconsider. I made the error of trying to keep us atarms"

length to begin with.

I relied on the generosity of the offer to sway you. I do not usuallymisjudge people so dismally-" and she looked up and smiled again, andthis time reached out and touched his arm. Her fingers were like herlimbs, long and slim, but they were delicately tapered and the nailswere shaped and lacquered to a glossy fleshy pink. She left them onhis arm as she went on speaking.

"My husband was an extraordinary man. A man of vast vision andstrength and compassion. Because of that they tortured and killed him,-" her voice had sunk to a hoarse catchy whisper " they killed him inthe most vile manner-" She stopped, but made no attempt to turn herhead away, she was unashamed of the tears that filled both eyes but didnot break over the lower lids. She did not even blink, and it was

Peter who looked away first. Only then she moved her hand, slipping itlightly into the crook of Peter's elbow and coming beside him so herhip almost touched his.

"It will rain soon," she said, her voice level and controlled.

"We should go down." And as they started, she went on talking.

"The butchers who did that to Aaron went free, while an impotentsociety looked on. A society which has systematically stripped itselfof defence against the next attack.

America has virtually disbanded its intelligence system, and soshackled and exposed what is left that it is powerless.

Your own country is concerned only with its particular problems,

as are we in the rest of Europe there is no international approach to aproblem that is international in scope. Atlas was a fine concept,limited as it was by the fact that it was a force that could only beused in retaliation and then only in special circumstances. However,if they ever suspect that it exists, the denizens of the left will massto tear it down like a hunting pack of hyena." She squeezed his armlightly, and looked sideways at him with a solemn slant of the emeraldeyes. "Yes,

General, I do know about Atlas but do not ask me how." Peter saidnothing, and they entered the forest, stepping carefully, for the pathwas slick and steep.

"After the death of my husband, I began to think a great deal about howwe could protect the world that we know, while still remaining withinthe laws which were first designed to do that. With

Altmann Industries I had inherited a comprehensive system ofinternational information gathering; naturally it was attuned almostentirely to commercial and industrial considerations, -" She went ontalking in that low intense voice that Peter found mesmeric, describinghow she had gradually used her massive fortune and influence to reachacross borders closed to most to gain the overall view of the new worldof violence and intimidation. " - I was not tied by considerationssuch as that of Interpol, forbidden by suicidal laws to involve itselfin any crime that has political motivation. It was only when I wasable to pass on what I had learned that I found myself coming upagainst the same self-destructive state of mind that masquerades asdemocracy and individual freedom. Twice I was able to anticipate aterrorist strike and to warn the authorities, but intention is not acrime, I was told, and both the culprits were quietly escorted to theborder and turned free to prepare themselves almost openly for the nextoutrage. The world must wait and cringe for the next stroke,

prohibited from making any pre-emptive strike to prevent it, and whenit comes they are hampered by confused national responsibilities and bythe complicated concept of minimum force " The Baroness broke off. "Butyou know all this! You have written in depth of the same subject."

"It's interesting to hear it repeated."

"I will come soon enough to the interesting part but we are almost backat the house."

"Come," Peter told her, and led her past the stables to the swimmingpool pavilion.

The surface of the heated pool steamed softly, and lush tropical plantswere in odd contrast to the wintry scene beyond the glass walls.

They sat side by side on a swing seat, close enough to be able to talkin subdued tones, but the intense mood was broken for the moment.

She took off her hat, scarf and jacket, and tossed them onto the canechair opposite, and she sighed as she settled back against thecushions.

"I understand from Sir Steven that he wants you to go into the bank."She slanted her eyes at him. "it must be difficult to be so soughtafter."

"I don't think I have Steven's reverence for money."

"It's a readily acquired taste, General Stride, she assured him. "Onethat can become an addiction." At that moment the children of both

Stride brothers arrived in a storm of shouted repartee and laughter,

which moderated only marginally when they realized that Peter and the

Baroness were in the swing seat.

Steven's youngest son, bulging over the top of his costume withpuppy-fat and with silver braces on his front teeth, rolled his eyes intheir direction and in a stage whisper told Melissa-Jane, Je t'aime, macliMe, swoon!

swoon!" His accent was frighteningly bad and he received a hissedrebuke and a shove in the small of the back that hurled him into thedeep end of the pool.

The Baroness smiled. "Your daughter is very protective-" she turnedslightly to examine Peter's face again or is it merely jealousy?"Without waiting for an answer she went straight on to ask anotherquestion. Against the background of shouts and splashes, Peter thoughthe had mis-heard.

"What did you say?" he asked carefully, certain that his expressionhad revealed nothing, and she repeated.

"Does the name Caliph mean anything to you?" He frowned slightly,

pretending to consider, while his memory darted back to the terriblemicro-seconds of mortal combat, of smoke and flame and gunfire and adark-haired girl in a scarlet shirt screaming: "Don't kill us! Caliphsaid we would not die. Caliph-" And his own bullets stopping the restof it, smashing into the open mouth. The word had haunted him sincethen, and he had tried a thousand variations, looking for sense andmeaning, considering the possibility that he had mis-heard. Now heknew he had not.

"Caliph?" he asked, not knowing why he was going to deny it,

merely because it seemed vital that he keep something in reserve, thathe were not carried headlong on the torrent of this woman's presenceand personality. "It's a Mohammedan title I think it literally meansthe heir of Mohammed, the successor to the prophet."

"Yes." She nodded impatiently. "It's the title of a civil andreligious leader but have you heard it used as a code name?"

"No. I am sorry, I have not.

What is the significance?"

"I am not sure, even my own sources are obscure and confused." Shesighed, and they watched Melissa-Jane in silence. The child had beenwaiting for Peter's attention, and when she had it she ran lightly outalong the springboard and launched herself, light as a swallow inflight, into a clean one-and-a-half somersault, entering the water withhardly a ripple and surfacing immediately with fine pale hair slickdown across her face, immediately looking again for Peter's approval.

"She's a lovely child," said the Baroness. "I have no children.

Aaron wanted a son but there was not one." And there was real sorrowin the green eyes that she masked quickly. Across the poolMelissa-Jane climbed from the pool and quickly draped a towel aroundher shoulders, covering her bosom which was now large enough and yet sonovel as to provide her with a constant source of embarrassment and shypride.

"Caliph," Peter reminded the Baroness quietly, and she turned back tohim.

"first heard the name two years ago, in circumstances I shall neverforget-" She hesitated. "May I take it that you are fully aware of thecircumstances surrounding my husband's kidnapping and murder? I

do not wish to repeat the whole harrowing story unless it isnecessary."

"I know it," Peter assured her.

"You know that I delivered the ransom, personally."

"Yes."

"The rendezvous was a deserted airfield near the East German border.They were waiting with a light twin-engined aircraft, a Russian-builtreconnaissance machine with its markings sprayed over." Peterremembered the meticulous planning and the special equipment used inthe hijacking of 070. It all tallied. " There were four men,

masked. They spoke Russian, or rather two of them spoke Russian. Theother two never spoke at all. It was bad Russian-" Peter rememberednow that the Baroness spoke Russian and five other languages. She hada Middle European background.

Peter wished he had studied her intelligence file more thoroughly.

Her father has escaped with her from her native Poland when she was asmall child. "Almost certainly, the aircraft and the Russian wereintended to cover their real identity," she mused. "I was with themfor some little time. I had forty-five million Swiss francs to deliverand even in notes of large denomination it was a bulky and heavy cargoto load aboard the aircraft. After the first few minutes, when theyrealized that I had no police escort, they relaxed and joked amongstthemselves as they worked at loading the money. The word "Caliph" wasused in the English version, in a Russian exchange that roughlytranslates as "He was right again" and the reply "Caliph is alwaysright". Perhaps the use of the English word made me remember it soclearly-" She stopped again, grief naked and bleak in the green eyes.

"You told the police?" Peter asked gently, and she shook her head.

"No. I don't know why not. They had been so ineffectual up to thattime. I was very angry and sad and confused.

Perhaps even then I had already decided that I would hunt them myselfand this was all I had."

"That was the only time you heard the name?" he asked, and she did notreply immediately. They watched the children at play and it seemedfantasy to be discussing the source of evil in such surroundings,against a background of laughter and innocent high spirits.

When the Baroness answered, she seemed to have changed directioncompletely.

"There had been that hiatus in international terrorism.

The Americans seemed to have beaten the hijacking problem with theirCuban agreement and the rigorous airport searches. Your own successfulcampaign against the Provisional wing of the IRA in this country, theEntebbe raid and the German action at Mogadishu were all hailed asbreakthrough victories. Everybody was beginning to congratulatethemselves that it was beaten. The Arabs were too busy with the war inthe Lebanon and with inter-group rivalries. It had been a passingthing." She shook her head again. "But terrorism is a growth industrythe risks are less than those of financing a major movie. There is aproven sixty-seven per cent chance of success, the capital outlay isminimal, with outrageous profits in cash and publicity, with instantresults and potential power not even calculable.

Even in the event of total failure, there is still a better than fiftyper cent survival rate for the participants." She smiled again,

but now there was no joy and no warmth in it. "Any businessman willtell you it's better than the commodity markets."

"The only thing against it is that the business is run by amateurs,"Peter'said, "or by professionals blinded by hatred or crippled byparochial interests and limited goals." And now she turned to him,wriggling around in the canvas swing seat, curling those long legs upunder her in that double-jointed woman's manner, impossible for aman.

"You are ahead of me, Peter." She caught herself. "I am sorry,

but General Stride is too much to say, and I have the feeling I haveknown you so long." The smile now was fleeting but warm. "My nameis

Magda," she went on simply.

"Will you use it?"

"Thank you, Magda."

"Yes." She picked up the thread of conversation again.

"The business is in the hands of amateurs but it is too good to staythat way."

"Enter Caliph," Peter guessed.

"That is the whisper that I have heard; usually there is no name.

Just that there was a meeting in Athens, or Amsterdam or East Berlinor

Aden only once have I heard the name Caliph again. But if he existsalready he must be one of the richest men in the world, and soon hewill be the most powerful."

"One man?" Peter asked.

"I do not know. Perhaps a group of men perhaps even a government.Russia, Cuba, an Arab country? Who knows yet?"

"And the goals?"

"Money, firstly. Wealth to tackle the political objectives and finallypower, raw power. "Magda Altmann stopped herself, and made aself-deprecating gesture. "This is guesswork again, my own guessingbased only on past performance.

They have the wealth now, provided by OPEC and myself amongst others.Now he or they have started on the political objectives, a soft targetfirst. An African racist minority government unprotected by powerfulallies. It should have succeeded. They should have won an entirenation a mineral-rich nation for the price of a dozen lives.

Even had they failed to gain the main prize, the consolation prize wasforty tons of pure gold. That's good business, Peter. It should havesucceeded. It had succeeded.

The Western nations actually put pressure on the victims, and forcedthem to accede to the demands it was a trial run, and it workedperfectly, except for one man."

"I am afraid," said Peter softly, "as afraid as I have ever been in mylife."

"Yes, I am also,

Peter. I have been afraid ever since that terrible phone call on thenight they took Aaron, and the more I learn the more afraid Ibecome."

"What happens next?"

"I do not know but the name he has chosen has the hint of megalomania,perhaps a man with visions of godlike domination-" She spread her finenarrow hands and the diamond flashed white fire. " We cannot hope tofathom the mind of a man who could embark on such a course.

Probably he believes that what he is doing is for the eventual good ofmankind. Perhaps he wants to attack the rich by amassing vast wealth,to destroy the tyrant with universal tyranny, to free mankind by makingit a slave to terror. Perhaps he seeks to right the wrongs of theworld with evil and injustice." She touched his arm again, and thistime the strength of those long fingers startled Peter. "You have tohelp me find him, Peter. I am going to put everything into the hunt,there will be no reservations, all the wealth and influence that

I control will be at your disposal."

"You choose me because you believe that I murdered a wounded womanprisoner?" Peter asked. "Are those my credentials?" And she recoiledfrom him slightly, and stared at him with the slightly Mongolian slantof eyes, then her shoulders slumped slightly.

"All right, that is part of it, but only a small part of it.

You know I have read what you have written, you must know that I

have studied you very carefully. You are the best man available tome,

and finally you have proved that your involvement is complete. I knowthat you have the strength and skill and ruthlessness to find Caliphand destroy him before he destroys us and the world we know." Peterwas looking inwards. He had believed that the beast had a thousandheads, and for each that was struck off a thousand more would grow butnow for the first time he imagined the full shape of the beast, it wasstill in ambush, not clear yet, but there was only a single head.

Perhaps, after all, it was mortal.

"Will you help me, Peter?"she asked.

"You know I will," he answered quietly. "I do not have any choice."She flew in the brilliance of high sunlight reflected from snow fieldsof blazing white, jetting through her turns with flowing elegance,carving each turn with a crisp rush of flying snow, swaying across thefall line of the mountain in an intricate ballet of interlinkedmovement.

She wore a slim-fitting skin suit of pearly grey, trimmed in black atthe shoulders and cuffs, she was shod with gleaming black Heierlingsnow birds and her skis were long, narrow, black Rossignolprofessionals.

Peter followed her, pressing hard not to lose too much ground, but histurns were solid Christies without the stylish fallback un weighting ofthe jet turn which gave her each time a fractional gain.

The dun he ran like a stag of ten But the mare like a new roused fawnKipling might have been describing them, and she was a hundred yardsahead of him as they entered the forest.

The pathway was barred with the shadows of the pines, and sugary iceroared under his skis as he pushed the narrow corners dangerously fast.Always she was farther ahead, flickering like a silver-grey wraith onthose long lean legs, her tight round buttocks balancing the narrowwaist and swinging rhythmically into the turns, marvelous controlledbroadsides where the icy roadway denied purchase, coming out fast andstraight, leaning into the rush of the wind, and her faint sweetlaughter came back to Peter as he chased.

There is an expertise that must be learned in childhood, and heremembered then that she was Polish, would probably have skied beforeshe was weaned, and suppressed the flare of resentment he always feltat being outclassed by another human being, particularly by the womanwho was fast becoming his driving obsession.

He came round another steeply banked turn, with the sheer snow wallrising fifteen feet on his right hand and on his left the tops of thenearest pines at his own level, so steep the mountain fell away intothe valley.

The ice warning signs flashed past, and there was a wooden bridge,

its boards waxen, opalescent with greenish ice. He felt control go ashe hit the polished iron-hard surface. The bridge crossed a deepsombre gorge, with a frozen waterfall skewered to the black mountainrock by its own cruel icicles, like crucifixion nails.

To attempt to edge in, or to stem the thundering rush across thetreacherous going, would have invited disaster, to lean backdefensively would have brought him down instantly and piled him intothe sturdy wooden guide rails.

At the moment he was lined up for the narrow bridge Peter flung himselfforward so that his shins socked into the pads of his boots,

and in a swoop of terror and exhilaration he went through, and foundthat he was laughing aloud though his heart leaped against his ribs andhis breathing matched the sound of the wind in his own ears.

She was waiting for him where the path debouched onto the lower slopes.She had pushed her goggles to the top of her head, and stripped off hergloves, both sticks planted in the snow beside her.

"You'll never know how much I needed that." She had flown into

Zurich that morning in her personal Lear jet.

Peter had come in on the Swissair flight from Brussels, and they hadmotored up together. "You know what I wish, Peter?"

"Tell me,"he invited.

"I wish that I could take a whole month, thirty glorious days, to dowhat I wish. To be ordinary, to be like other people and not feel amoment's guilt." He had seen her on only three occasions in the sixweeks since their first meeting at Abbots Yew. Three too brief and,

for Peter, unsatisfying meetings.

Once in his new office suite at the Narmco headquarters in

Brussels, again at La Pierre Brute, her country home outside Paris,

but then there had been twenty other guests for dinner. The third timehad been in the panelled and tastefully decorated cabin of her Lear jeton a flight between Brussels and London.

Though they had made little progress as yet in the hunt for

Caliph, Peter was still exploring the avenues that had occurred to himand had cast a dozen lines, baited and hooked.

During their third meeting Peter had discussed with her the need torestructure her personal safety arrangements.

He had changed her former bodyguards, replacing them with operativesfrom a discreet agency in Switzerland which trained its own ryien. Thedirector of the agency was an old and trusted friend.

They had come to this meeting now so that Peter might report back onhis progress to Magda. But for a few hours the snow had seduced themboth.

"There is still another two hours before the light goes." Peterglanced across the valley at the village church. The gold hands of theclock showed a little after two o'clock.

"Do you want to run the Rheinhorn?" She hesitated only a moment.

"The world will keep turning, I'm sure." Her teeth were very white,but one of them was slightly crooked, a blemish that was oddlyappealing as she smiled up at him. "Certainly it will wait two hours."He had learned that she kept unbelievable hours, begining her day'swork when the rest of the world still slept, and still hard at it whenthe offices of Altmann Industries in Boulevard Capucine weredeserted,

except her own office suite on the top floor. Even during the drive upfrom Zurich she had gone through correspondence and dictated quietly toone of her secretaries. He knew that at the chalet across the valleyher two secretaries would be waiting already, with a pile of telexflimsies for her consideration and the line held open for herreplies.

"There are better ways to die than working yourself to death." He wassuddenly out of patience with her single mindedness and she laughedeasily with high colour in her cheeks and the sparkle of the last runin the green eyes.

"Yes, you are right, Peter. I should have you near to keep remindingme of that. "That's the first bit of sense I've had from you in sixweeks." He was referring to her opposition to his plans for hersecurity. He had tried to persuade her to change established behaviourpatterns, and though the smile was still on her lips, her eyes weredeadly serious as she studied his face.

"My husband left me a trust-" she seemed suddenly sad beneath thelaughter a duty that I must fulfill. One day I should like to explainthat to you but now we only have two hours." It was snowing lightly,

and the sun had disappeared behind the mountains of rock and snow andcloud as they walked back through the village. The lights were burningin the richly laden shop windows and they were part of the gaily cladstream returning from the slopes, clumping along the frozen sidewalksin their clumsy ski boots, carrying skis and sticks over one shoulderand chattering with the lingering thrill of the high pi ste that eventhe lowering snow-filled dusk could not suppress.

"It feels good to be free of my wolves for a while." Magda caught hisarm as her snow birds skidded on dirty ridged ice, and after she hadregained her balance she left her gloved hand there.

Her wolves were the bodyguards that Peter had provided, the silentvigilant men who followed her either on foot or in a second car. Theywaited outside her offices while she worked, and others guarded thehouse while she slept.

That morning, however, she had told Peter, "Today I have as a companiona gold medal Olympic pistol champion, I don't need my wolves." Narmcomarketed its own version of the 9-men parabellum pistol.

It was called "Cobra', and after a single morning in the undergroundrange Peter had taken a liking to the weapon. It was lighter andflatter than the Walther he was accustomed to, easier to carry andconceal, and the single action mechanism saved a flicker of time withthe first shot, for there was no need to cock the action. He had hadno trouble obtaining a permit to carry one as a trade sample, althoughit was necessary to check it before every commercial flight, but itcarried neatly in a quick-release shoulder holster.

He had felt theatrical and melodramatic at first, but with a littlesober thought had convinced himself that to follow on Caliph's tracksunarmed was shortening the odds against himself.

Now it was becoming habit, and he was barely aware of the comfortingshape and weight in his armpit, until Magda spoke.

"I am close to dying from thirst," she went on, and they racked theirskis and went into the jovial warmth and clouds of steam that billowedfrom one of the coffee shops that lined the main street.

They found a seat at a table already crowded with young people,

and they ordered glasses of steaming hot GUhuvin.

Then the four-piece hand thumped out a popular dance tune and theirtable companions swarmed onto the tiny dance floor.

Peter raised a challenging eyebrow at her and she asked with amusement,"Have you ever danced in ski boots?"

"There has to be a first time for everything." She danced like she dideverything else,

with complete absorption, and her body was strong and hard and slimagainst his.

It was completely dark as they climbed the narrow track above thevillage and went in through the electronically controlled gate in theprotective wall around the chalet.

It was somehow typical of her that she had avoided the fashionableresorts, and that externally the chalet seemed not much different fromfifty others that huddled in the edge of the pine forest. There waspatent relief amongst her entourage at her return, and she seemedalmost defiant at their concern as though she had just proved somethingto herself but still she did not change from her sports clothes beforedisappearing into the office suite on the first floor with her two malesecretaries. "I work better with men," she had explained to

Peter once. As Peter dressed in slacks, blazer and silk roll neckafter a scalding shower, he could still hear the clatter of the telexmachine from the floor below, and it was an hour later when she calledhim on the house telephone.

The entire top floor was her private domain and she was standing at thewindows looking out over the snow-fuzzed lights of the valley as heentered.

She wore green slacks tucked in aprs-ski boots, and a blouse of thesame colour, a perfect match for her eyes. The moment Peter entered,she pressed a concealed switch and the curtains slid silently closed,then she turned to him.

"A drink, Peter?"she asked.

Not if we are going to talk."

"We are going to talk," she said positively, and indicated the softsquashy leather armchair across from the fireplace.

She had resisted the traditional Swiss cuckoo-clock and knotty pinedecor, and the carpeting was thick Wilton to match the curtains,

the furniture low and comfortable but modern, sporty and good fun, thevery best made to appear natural and unaffected, blending easily withthe modern art on the walls and abstract sculpture in marble andgrained wood.

She smiled suddenly at him. "I had no idea that I had found myself agifted Sales Director for Narmco - I really am impressed with what youhave done in so short a time."

"I had to establish a plausible coven" Peter deprecated the compliment."And I used to be a soldier the job interests me."

"You English!" she told him with mock exasperation.

"Always so modest." She did not seat herself but moved about the room;although never at rest, neither did she give the feeling ofrestlessness. "I am informed that there is to be a definite NATO

"I am further informed that the decision was made to test after you hadmet with some of your former colleagues."

"The whole world runs on the old boy system-" Peter chuckled, "youshould know that."

"And you are on old boy terms with the Iranians?" She cocked her headat him.

"That was a small stroke of luck. Five years ago I was on a staffcollege course with their new military adviser."

"Luck again." She smiled. "Isn't it strange that luck so oftenfavours those who are clever and dedicated and who move faster than thepack?"

"I have had less luck in other directions, Peter pointed out, andimmediately there was no trace of laughter left upon her lips nor inthe emerald eyes,

but Peter went on.

"So far I have been unsuccessful with the contact we spoke about on ourlast meeting-" They had discussed the possibility of access to theAtlas computer link, of requisitioning a printout on'Caliph'from theCentral Intelligence bank, if there was one programmed.

"As I explained, there was the one remote possibility of access,

somebody who owed me a favour. He was of no help. He believes that ifthere is a "Caliph" listing, it's blocked and buzzed." Which meantthat any unauthorized requisition would sound an alarm in intelligencecontrol.

"We'd trigger a Delta condition in Atlas if we put in a printoutrequisition."

"You did not give him the name?" Magda asked sharply.

"No. No names, just a general discussion over dinner at Brooks's butall the implications were there."

"Do you have any further avenues ?"

"I think so. One more, but it's a last resort," Peter said.

"Before we come to that, though, perhaps you can tell me if you haveanything further from your sources."

"My sources-" Magda had never made more explicit descriptions, andPeter had instinctively known not to pry.

There was a certain finality to the way she said it. "My sources havebeen mostly negative. The seizure of the Netherlands Embassy in

Bonn was unconnected with Caliph. It was exactly what it purported tobe South Moluccan extremists. The hijackers of Cathay Airlines and

Transit Airlines were both enthusiastic amateurs, as evidence themethods and the outcome " She smiled drily and drifted back across theroom to touch the Hundedwasser collage that hung on the side wall,

rearranging the hang of the frame in an essentially feminine gesture.

There is only one recent act that has the style of Caliph."

"Prince

Hassled Abdel Hayek?" Peter asked, and she turned to face him,

thrusting out one hip with her hand upon it, the nails very red againstthe light-green cloth and the marquise cut diamond sparkling.

"What did you make of it?" she asked. The Prince had been shot dead,three bullets of .22 calibre in the back of the head while asleep inhis rooms on the Cambridge campus. A nineteen-year-old grandson of

King Khalid of Saudi Arabia, not one of the particular favourites ofthe king, a bespectacled scholarly youth who seemed content to remainoutside the mainstream of palace power and politics.

There had been no attempt at abduction, no sign of a struggle, noevidence of robbery the young Prince had no close friends nor apparentenemies.

"It does not seem to have reason or motive," Peter admitted.

"That's why I thought of Caliph."

"The deviousness of Caliph-" Magda turned away and her haunches rippledunder the elastic of her green slacks.

There was no ruck line of panties, and her buttocks were perfectspheres, with the shadow of the deep cleft between them showing throughthe thin material. Peter watched her legs as she paced, realizing forthe first time that her feet were long and narrow as her hands, fineand graceful bones in perfect proportion.

"If I told you that Saudi Arabia last week made clear to the othermembers of OPEC that, far from supporting a rise in the price ofcrude,

she will press for a five per cent reduction in the world price at theorganization's next meeting-" Peter straightened up in his chair slowlyand Magda went on softly " and that she will be supported by Iran inher proposal. If I told you that, what would you think?"

"The King has other, more favoured grandchildren grandsons and sons aswell,

brothers, nephews" Seven hundred of them," Magda agreed, and then wenton musing. "The Shah of Iran has children that he divorced one wife toobtain-"

"The Shah paid his hundred-million-dollar ransom promptly to save hisoil minister during the Carlos abduction what would he do for his ownchildren?" Peter stood up now, unable to stay still with the itch ofnew ideas.

"And the King of Saudi-Arabia is an Arab. You know how

Mohammedans are about sons and grandsons." Magda came to stand soclose to him that he could feel the warmth of her flesh through thenarrow space between them, and her perfume subtly underlined the ripesweet woman's smell of her body, disturbing him, but strangelyheightening his awareness. "Perhaps King Khalid has also been remindedof his own mortality."

"All right." Peter hunched his shoulders and frowned in concentration."What are we suggesting? That Caliph has struck another easy formula?Two men who control the economic destiny of the

Western world? Two men who make decisions at the. personal level, whoare not answerable to cabinets or causes or governments?"

"Men who are therefore vulnerable to personal terrorism, who haverecords of appeasement to terrorist pressure." Magda paused. "The oldtruths are still good. "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." Boththe Shah and the King will be no strangers to the fear of theassassin's blade.

They will understand the law of the knife, because they have alwayslived by it."

"Hell, you have to admire it." Peter shook his head.

"There is no need to take and hold hostages. No need for exposure. Youkill one obscure member of a large royal family, and you promise thatthere will be others, each one more important, closer to the head."

"Both families have a high profile. The Shah loves the bright lights.He's up at Gstaad right this moment. It would need only a sniper up inthe treeline to pick one of his children. His sister Shams is inMauritius now. As for the King's family any time you want to drop intothe Dorchester you'll find one of his sons or grandsons sipping coffeein the public lounge. They are soft targets,

and there are plenty of them. You might even have to kill twoprincelings; or three but secretly the world will feel that they had itcoming to them anyway. There will not be oceans wept for men who havethemselves held the world to ransom." Peter's frown smoothed away,

and he grinned wryly. "Not only do you have to admire it you've got tohave a sneaking sympathy for the object. A dead brake to the cripplinginflation of the world, a slowing of disruptive imbalance in trade."And Magda's expression was fierce as he had never seen it before. "Thatis the trap, Peter. To see the end only, and to harden yourself to themeans. That was the trap that Caliph set with the taking of 070. Hisdemands coincided with those of the Western powers,

and they placed additional pressure on the victim. Now, if we arecorrect and Caliph is pressuring the oil dictators for a moderation oftheir demands, how much more support can he expect from the Westerncapitalist powers?"

"You are a capitalist," Peter pointed out. "If

Caliph succeeds you will be one of the first to benefit."

"I am capitalist, yes. But before that I am a human being, and athinking human being. Do you really believe that if Caliph succeedsnow that this will be the last we hear of him?"

"Of course not." Peter spread his hands in resignation.

"Always his demands will be harsher with each success he must becomebolder."

"I think we can have that drink now," Magda said softly, and turnedaway from him. The black onyx top of the coffee table slid aside ather touch to reveal the array of bottles and glasses beneath.

"Whisky, isn't it?" she asked, and poured a single malt Glenlivet intoone of the cut glass tumblers. As she handed it to him their fingerstouched and he was surprised at how cool and dry her skin felt.

She poured half a flute glass of white wine and filled it with

Perrier water. As she replaced the wine bottle in the ice bucket,

Peter saw the label. It was Le Montrachet 1969.

Probably the greatest white wine in the world, and Peter had to protestat the way in which she had desecrated it.

"Alexander Dumas said it should be drunk only on bended knee and withhead reverently bared-"

" He forgot the mineral water," Magda purred with throaty laughter."Anyway you can't trust a man who employed other people to write hisbooks for him." She lifted the adulterated wine to him. "Long ago Idecided to live my life on my own terms. To hell with Messrs Dumas andCaliph."

"Shall we drink to that?" Peter asked, and they watched each otherover the rims. The level of Magda's glass had not lowered and she setthe glass aside,

moving across to adjust the bowl of hothouse tulips in the chunkyfree-form crystal bowl.

"If we are right. If this is Caliph at work then it disturbs theinstinctive picture I had formed of him." Peter broke the silence.

"How?" she asked without looking up from the flowers.

"Caliph it's an Arabic name. He is attacking the leader of the

Arab world."

"The deviousness of Caliph. Was the name deliberately chosen toconfuse the hunters or perhaps there are other demands apart from theoil price perhaps pressure is also being put on Khalid for closersupport of the Palestinians, or one of the other extremist

Arab movements. We do not know what else Caliph wants from Saudi

Arabia."

"But then, the oil price. It is Western orientated. Somehow it hasalways been accepted that terrorism is a tool of the far left,"

Peter pointed out, shaking his head. "The hijacking of 070 even thekidnapping of your husband were both aimed against the capitalistsociety."

"He kidnapped Aaron for the money, and killed him to protect hisidentity. The attack on the South African Government, the attack onthe oil cartel, the choice of name, all point to a person with god-likepretensions." Magda broke the head off one of the tulips with anabrupt, angry gesture, and crushed it in her fist. She let the petalsfall into the deep onyx ashtray. "I feel so helpless, Peter.

We seem to be going round in futile circles." She came back to him ashe stood by the curtained windows. "You said earlier that there wasone sure way to flush out Caliph?"

"Yes," Peter nodded.

"Can you tell me?"

"There was an old trick of the Indian shikari.

When he got tired of following the tiger in thick jungle without asight of the beast, he used to stake out a goat and wait for the tigerto come to it."

"A goat?"

"My Zodiacal sign is Capricorn the goat."

Peter smiled slightly.

"I don't understand."

"If I were to put the word out that I was hunting Caliph, he smiledagain. "Caliph knows me. The hijacker spoke my name,

clearly, un mistakenly She had been warned. So I believe that Caliphwould take me seriously enough to consider it necessary to come afterme." He saw the lingering colour drain dramatically from her highcheeks, and the sudden shadow in the depths of her eyes.

"Peter-"

"That's the only way I'm going to get close to him."

"Peter-" She placed her hand on his forearm, but then she could not goon. Instead she stared at him silently and her eyes were green anddark and unfathomable. He saw there was a pulse that throbbed softlyin her long graceful neck, just below the ear. Her lips parted, asthough she were about to speak. They were delicately sculpturedlips,

and she touched them with the pink tip of her tongue, leaving themmoist and soft and somehow defenceless. She closed them, withoutspeaking, but the pressure of her fingers on his arm increased, and thecarriage of her whole body altered. Her back arched slightly so herlower body swayed towards him and her chin lifted slightly.

"I have been so lonely," she whispered. "So lonely, for so very long.I only realized how lonely today while I was with you." Peter felt achoking sensation in his throat, and the prickle of blood behind hiseyes.

"I don't want to be lonely again, ever." he had let her hair comedown. It was very thick and long. It fell in a straight ripplingcurtain shot through with glowing lights, to her waist.

She had parted it in the centre; a thin straight line of white scalpdivided the great black wings and they framed her face, making itappear pale and childlike with eyes too large and vulnerable, and asshe came towards where Peter lay the glossy sheets of hair slidsilently across the brocade of her gown.

The hem of the gown swept the carpet, and her bare toes peeped out fromunder it with each step. Narrow finely boned feet, and the nails weretrimmed and painted with a colourless lacquer. The sleeves of the gownwere wide as batwings and lined internally with sat in, the collarbuttoned up in a high Chinese style.

Beside the bed she stopped and her courage and poise seemed to deserther, her shoulders slumped a little and she clasped the long narrowfingers before her in a defensive gesture.

"Peter, I don't think I am going to be very good at this." The throatywhisper was barely audible, and her lips trembled with the strength ofher appeal. "And I want so badly to be good." Silently he reached outone hand towards her, palm upwards. The bedclothes covered him to thewaist, but his chest and arms were bare, lightly tanned and patternedwith dark wiry body hair. As he reached for her the muscle bunched andexpanded beneath the skin, and she saw that there was no surplus fleshon his waist, nor on his shoulders and upper arms. He looked lean andhard and tempered, yet leas the lash of a bullwhip, and she did notrespond immediately to the invitation, for his masculinity wasoverpowering.

He folded back the thick down-filled duvet between them, and the sheetwas crisp and smoothly ironed in the low rosy light.

"Come,"he ordered gently, but she turned away and with her back to himshe undid the buttons of the embroidered gown, beginning at the throatand working downwards.

She slipped the gown from her shoulders, and held it for a moment inthe crook of her elbows. The smooth pale flesh gleamed through thefall of dark hair, and she seemed to steel herself like a diver bracingfor the plunge into unknown depths.

She let the gown drop with a rustling slide down the full length of herbody, and it lay around her ankles in a shallow puddle of peacockcolours.

She heard him gasp aloud, and she threw the hair back from hershoulders with a toss of the long, swan-white neck.

The hair hung impenetrably to the small of her back; just above thedeep cleft of her lower body it ended in a clean line and her buttockswere round and neat and without blemish, but even as he stared themarble smoothness puckered into a fine rash of gooseflesh as though hiseyes had physically caressed her, and she had responded with anappealingly natural awareness that proved how her every sense must bearoused and tingling. At the knowledge Peter felt his heartsqueezed.

He wanted to rush to her and sweep her into his arms, but instinctwarned him that she must close the last gap herself, and he lay quietlypropped on one elbow, feeling the deep ache of wanting spread throughhis entire body.

She stooped to pick up the gown, and for a moment the long legs were atan awkward coltish angle to each other and the spheres of her buttocksaltered shape. No longer perfectly symmetrical, but parted slightly,and in the creamy niche they formed with her thighs there was aninstant's heart-stopping glimpse of a single dense tight curl of hairand the light from beyond tipped the curl with glowing reddishhighlights, then she had straightened again, once more lithe andtall,

and she dropped the robe across the low couch and in the same movementturned back to face Peter.

He gasped again and his sense of continuity began to break up into amosaic of distinct, seemingly unconnected images and sensations.

Her breasts were tiny as those of a pubescent child, but the nippleswere startlingly prominent, the colour and texture of ripening youngberries, dark wine-red, already fully erect and hard as pebbles.

The pale plain of her belly, with the deep pit of the navel at itscentre, that ended at last on the plump darkly furred mound pressedinto the deep wedge between her thighs, like a small frightened livingcreature crouching from the stoop of the falcon.

The feel of her face pressed to his chest, and the tickle of her quickbreath stirring his body hair, the almost painful grip of slim powerfularms locked with desperate strength around his waist.

The taste of her mouth as her lips parted slowly, softly, to his andthe uncertain flutter of her tongue becoming bolder, velvety on top andslick and slippery on the underside.

The sound of her breathing changing to a deep sonorous pulse in hisears, seeming to keep perfect time with his own.

The smell of her breath, heavy with the aromatic musk of her arousal,and blending with the orangy fragrance of her perfume and the ripewoman smell of her body.

And always the feel of her the warmth and the softness, the hardness oftoned muscle and the running ripple of long dark hair about his faceand down his body, the crisp electric rasp of tight, tense curlsparting to unbearable heat and going on for ever to depths that seemedto reach beyond the frontier of reality and reason.

And then later the stillness of complete peace that reached out fromthe centre where she lay against his heart and seemed to spread to thefarthest corners of his soul.

"I knew that I was lonely," she whispered. "But I did not realize justhow terribly deeply." And she held him as though she would neverrelinquish her grip.

Magda woke him in the cold utter darkness three hours before dawn, andit was still dark when they left the chalet. The headlights of thefollowing Mercedes that carried her wolves swept the interior of theirsaloon through each bend in the steep twisting road down from themountains.

On take-off from Zurich Magda was in the Lear jet's left-hand seat,flying as pilot in-command, and she handled the powerful machine withthe sedate lack of ostentation which marks the truly competentaviator.

Her personal pilot, a grizzled and taciturn Frenchman, who was flyingnow as her co-pilot, evidently held her skill in high regard andwatched over her with an almost fatherly pride and approval as shecleared Zurich controlled airspace and levelled out at cruise altitudefor Paris Orly before she left him to monitor the auto-pilot and cameback to the main cabin. Though she sat beside Peter in the blackcalfskin armchairs, her manner was unchanged from the way it had beenduring their last flight together in this machine. reserved and politeso that he found it difficult to believe the wonders they had exploredtogether the previous night.

She worked with the two dark-suited secretaries opposite her, speakingher fluent rippling French with the same enchanting trace of accentthat marked her English. In the short time since he had joined Narmco,Peter had been forced to make a crash revision of his own French. Nowonce again he could manage, if not with eclat, at least withcompetence, in technical and financial discussion. Once or twice Magdaturned to him for comment or opinion, and her gaze was serious andremote, seeming as impersonal and efficient as an electronic computerand Peter understood that they were to make no show of their newrelationship before employees.

Immediately she proved him wrong, for her co-pilot called her over thecabin speaker.

"We will join the Orly circuit in four minutes, Baroness." And sheturned easily and naturally and kissed Peter's cheek, still speakingFrench.

"Pardon me, chill. I will make the landing. I need the flying time inmy logbook." She greased the sleek swift aircraft onto the runway asthough she was spreading butter on hot toast. The co-pilot had radioedahead so that when she parked in the private hangar there were auniformed immigration poficier and a douanier already waiting.

As they came aboard, they saluted her respectfully and then barelyglanced at her red diplomatic passport. They took a little longer withPeter's blue and gold British passport, and Magda murmured to Peterwith a trace of a smile.

"I must get you a little red book. It's so much easier." Then to theofficials. "It is a cold morning, gentlemen, I hope you will take aglass." And her white-jacketed steward was hovering already. Theyleft the two Frenchmen removing their kepis and pistol belts, settlingdown comfortably in the leather armchairs to make a leisurely selectionof the cigars and cognac that the steward had produced for theirapproval.

There were three cars waiting for them, parked in the back of thehangar with drivers and guards. Peter's lip curled as he saw theMaserati.

"I told you not to drive that thing," he said gruffly. "It's likehaving your name in neon lights." They had argued about this vehiclewhile Peter was reorganizing her personal Security, for the Maseratiwas an electric silver-grey, one of her favourite colours, a shimmeringdart of metal. She swayed against him with that husky little chuckleof hers.

"Oh, that is so very nice to have a man being masterful again. Itmakes me feel like a woman."

"I have other ways of making you feel like that." know, he agreed,with a wicked flash of green eyes.

"And I like those even better, but not now please! What in the worldwould my staff think!" Then seriously, "You take the Maserati, Iordered it for you, anyway. Somebody may as well enjoy it. And pleasedo not be late this evening.

I have especially made it free for us. Try and be at La Pierre Beniteby eight o'clock will you please?" By the time Peter had to slow forthe traffic along the Pont Neuilly entrance to Paris, he had accustomedhimself to the surging power and acceleration of the Maserati, and, asshe had suggested, he was enjoying himself. Even in the mad Parisiantraffic he used the slick gear box to knife through the merestsuspicion of an opening, hulling out of trouble or overtaking with theomnipotent sense of power that control of the magnificent machinebestowed upon its driver.

He knew then why Magda loved it so dearly, and when he parked it atlast in the underground garage on the Champs-Elyses side of Concorde hegrinned at himself in the mirror.

"Bloody cowboy!" he said, and glanced at his Rolex. He had an hourbefore his first appointment, and as a sudden thought unclipped theholster of the Cobra and, with the pistol still in it, locked it in theglove compartment of the Maserati. He grinned again as he pondered thein advisability of marching into French Naval Headquarters armed to theteeth.

The drizzle had cleared, and the chestnut trees in the Elys& gardenswere popping their first green birds as he came out into Concorde. Heused one of the call boxes in the Concorde Metro station to make a callto the British Embassy. He spoke to the Military Attach for twominutes, and when he hung up, he knew the ball was probably already inplay. If Caliph had penetrated the Atlas Command eeply enough to knowhim personally as the commander of Thor then it would not be too longbefore he knew that the former commander had picked up the spoor. TheMilitary Attache at the Paris Embassy had other more clandestine dutiesthan kissing the ladies" hands at diplomatic cocktail parties.

Peter reached the main gates of the Marine Headquarters on the cornerof the rue Royale with a few minutes to spare, but already there was asecretary waiting for him below the billowing Tricolour. He smoothedPeter's way past the sentries, and led him to the armaments committeeroom on the third floor overlooking a misty grey view of the Seine andthe gilded arches of the Pont Neuf. Two of Peter's assistants fromNarmco were there ahead of him with their briefcases Unpacked and thecontents spread upon the polished walnut table.

The French Flag captain had been in Brussels, and on one unforgettableevening he had conducted Peter on a magic carpet tour of the brothelsof that city. He greeted him now with cries of Gallic pleasure andaddressed him as Itu" and "tai" which all boded very well for themeeting ahead.

At noon precisely, the French captain moved that the meeting adjournacross the street to a private room on the first floor of Maxim's,blissful in the certainty that Narmco would pick up the tab, if theywere really serious about selling the Kestrel rocket motors to theFrench Navy.

It required all Peter's tact not to make it obvious that he was takingless than his share of the Clos de Vougeot or of the Rmy Martin, andmore than once he found that he had missed part of the discussion whichwas being conducted at a steadily increasing volume. He found that hewas thinking of emerald eyes and small pert bosoms.

From Maxim's back to the Ministry of Marine, and later it requiredanother major act of diplomacy on Peter's part when the captainsmoothed his mustache and cocked a knowing eye at Peter. "There is acharming little club, very close and wonderfully friendly." By sixo'clock Peter had disentangled himself from the Frenchman's company,with protestations of friendship and promises to meet again in tendays" time. An hour later Peter left his two sales assistants at thehotel Meurice after a quick but thorough summation of the day'sachievements.

They were, all three, agreed that it was a beginning but a long, longroad lay ahead to the ending.

He walked back along Rivoli; despite the frowsiness of a long day ofendless talk and the necessity for quick thinking in a language whichwas still strange on the tongue, despite a slight ache behind the eyesfrom the wine and cognac and despite the taste of cigar and cigarettesmoke he had breathed, he was buoyed by a tingling sense ofanticipation, for Magda was waiting, and he stepped out briskly.

As he paused for traffic lights, he caught a glimpse of his ownreflection in a shop window. He was smiling without realizing it.

While he waited on the ramp of the parking garage for his turn to payand enter the traffic stream, with the Maserati engine whisperingimpatiently, he glanced in the rear view mirror. He had acquired thehabit long ago when one of the captured Provo death lists had begunwith his name; since then he had learned to look over his shoulder.

He noticed the Citron two back in the line of vehicles because thewindshield was cracked and there was a scrape which had dented themudguard and exposed a bright strip of bare metal.

He noticed the same black Citron still two back as he waited forpedestrian: lights in the Champs-Elys6es, and when he ducked his headslightly to try and get a look at the driver, the headlights switchedon as though to frustrate him and at that moment the lights changed andhe had to drive on.

Going around the ttoile, the Citroen had fallen back four places in thegrey drizzling dusk of early autumn, but he spotted it once again whenhe was halfway down the Avenue de la Grande Armee, for by now he wasactively searching for it. This time it changed lanes and slipped offthe main thoroughfare to the left. It was immediately lost in the mazeof side streets and Peter should have been able to forget it andconcentrate on the pleasure of controlling the Maserati, but therelingered a sense of foreboding and even after he had shot thecomplicated junction of roads that got him onto the periphery route andeventually out on the road to Versailles and Chartres, he found himselfchanging lanes and speed while he scanned the road behind in themirror.

Only when he left Versailles and was on the Rambouillet road did hehave a clear view back a mile down the straight avenue of plane trees,and he was certain there was no other vehicle on the road. He relaxedcompletely and began to prepare himself for the final turn off thatwould bring him at last to La Pierre BMite.

The shiny wet black python of road uncoiled ahead of him and thenhumped abruptly. Peter came over the rise at 150 kilometres an hourand instantly started to dance lightly on brake and clutch, avoidingthe temptation of tramping down hard and losing adhesion on theslippery uneven tarmac. Ahead of him there was a gendarme in a shinywhite plastic cape, wet with rain, brandishing a torch with a red lens;there were reflective warning triangles bright as rubies, a Peugeot inthe ditch beside the road with headlights glaring at the sky, a darkblue police Kombi van half blocking the road, and in the stage lit bythe Kombi's headlights two bodies were laid out neatly, and all of ithazed by the soft insistent mantle of falling rain. - a typicalroadside accident scene.

Peter had the Maserati well in hand, bringing her neatly down throughthe gears to a crawl, and as he was lowering the side window, theelectric motor whining softly and the icy gust of night air into theheated interior, the gendarme gestured with the flashlight for him topull over into the narrow gap between hedge and the parked Kombi, andat that moment the unexpected movement caught Peter's eye.

It was one of the bodies lying in the roadway under the headlights. Themovement was the slight arch of the back that a man makes before risingfrom the prone position.

Peter watched him lift his arm, not more than a few inches, but it wasjust enough for Peter to realize he had been holding an objectconcealed down the outside of his thigh, and even in the rain and thenight Peter's trained eye recognized the perforated air-cooled sleeveenclosing the short barrel of a fold-down machine pistol.

Instantly his brain was racing so that everything about him seemed tobe taking place in dreamy slow motion.

The Maserati! he thought. They're after Magda.

The gendarme was coming round to the driver's side of the Maserati, andhe had his right hand under the white plastic cape, at the level of hispistol belt.

Peter went flat on the gas pedal, and the Maserati bellowed like a bullbuffalo shot through the heart. The rear wheels broke from the wetsurface, and with a light touch Peter encouraged the huge silvermachine to swing like a scythe at the gendarme. It should have cut himdown, but he was too quick. As he dived for the hedge, Peter saw thathe had brought the pistol out from under his cape but was too busy atthat moment to use it.

The side of the Maserati touched the hedge with a fluttering rustle offoliage, and Peter lifted his right foot, caught the enraged charge ofthe machine and swung her the other way. The moment she was lined uphe hit the gas again, and the Maserati howled. This time she burnedblue rubber smoke off her rear wheels.

There was a driver at the wheel of the blue police Kombi, and he triedto pull across to block the road completely, but he was not fastenough.

The two vehicles touched, with a crackle and scream of metal thatjarred Peter's teeth, but what concerned him was that the two bodies inthe headlights were no longer flat.

The nearest was on one knee and he was swinging the short stubbymachine pistol it looked like a Stirling or the new Sidewinder, but hewas using the fold-down wire butt, wasting vital fractions of a secondto get the weapon to his shoulder. He was also blocking the field offire of the man who crouched behind him with another machine pistolpinned to his hip, pointing with index finger and forearm, ready totrigger with his second finger "That's the way it should be done."Peter recognized professional skill, and his brain was running soswiftly that he had time to applaud it.

The Maserati cannoned off the police Kombi, and Peter lifted his rightfoot to take traction off the rear wheels, and spun the wheel the hardlock to the right. The Maserati swung her tail with a screech ofrubber and went into a left side slide towards the two figures in theroad, and Peter ducked down below the level of the door. He haddeliberately induced the left-hand slide, so that he had some littleprotection from the engine compartment and body work

As he ducked he heard the familiar sound, like a giant rippingheavyweight canvas, an automatic weapon throwing bullets at a cyclicrate of almost two thousand rounds a minute, and the bullets tore intothe side of the Maserati, beating in the metal with an ear-numbingclangor, while glass exploded in upon Peter like the glittering sprayas a storm-driven wave strikes a rock. Glass chips pelted across hisback, and stung his cheek and the back of his neck.

They sparkled like a diamond tiara in his hair.

Whoever was doing the shooting had certainly emptied the magazine inthose few seconds, and now Peter bobbed up in his seat, slitting hiseyes against the cloud of glass splinters. He saw a looming nightmareof dark hedges and spun the wheel back to hold the Maserati. Sheswayed to the limits of her equilibrium and Peter had a glimpse of thetwo gunmen in the road rolling frantically into the half filled ditch,but at that moment his off-rear wheel hit the lip and he was slammed upshort against his safety belt with a force that drove the air from hislungs, and the Maserati reared like a stallion smelling the mare andtail-walked, swinging in short vicious surges back and forth across theroad, as he desperately fought for control with gear and brake andwheel. He must have spun full circle, Peter realized, for there was agiddy dazzle of light beams and of running and rolling figures,everything hazy and indistinct in the rain, then the open road aheadagain, and he sent the car at it with a great howling lunge, at thesame moment glancing up at his mirror.

In the headlights he saw the burned blue clouds of smoke and steamthrown up by his own tyres, and through it the figure of the secondgunman obscured from the waist by the ditch. He had the machine pistolat his waist, and the muzzle flash bloomed about him.

Peter heard the first burst hit the Maserati and he could not duckagain, for there was a bend ahead in the rain, coming up at dazzlingspeed and he clenched his jaws waiting for it.

The next burst hit the car, like the sound of hail on a tin roof, andhe felt the rude tugging, numbing jerk in his upper body.

"Tagged!" he realized. There was no mistaking it, he had been hitbefore. The first time when he led a patrol into an ambush a very longtime ago, and at the same moment he was evaluating the hit calmlyfinding he still had use of both hands and all his senses. Either itwas a ricochet, or the bullet had spent most of its force inpenetrating the rear windshield and seat back.

The Maserati tracked neatly into the bend, and only then he felt theengine surge and falter. Almost immediately the sharp stink ofgasoline filled the cab of the Maserati.

"Fuel line," he told himself, and there was the warm, uncomfortablespread of his own blood down his back and side, and he placed his woundlow in the left shoulder. If it had penetrated it would be a lung hit,and he waited for the coppery salt taste of blood in his throat or thebubbling froth of escaping air in his chest cavity.

The engine beat checked again, surged and checked, as it starved forfuel. That first traversing burst of automatic fire must have rippedthrough the engine compartment, and Peter thought wryly that in themovies the Maserati would have immediately erupted in spectacularpyrotechnics like a miniature Vesuvius though in reality it didn'thappen like that, still gasoline from the severed lead would bespraying over plugs and points.

One last glance backwards, before the bend hid it and he saw three menrunning for the police van three men and the driver, that was lousyodds. They would be after him immediately, and the crippled machinemade a final brave leap forward that carried them five hundred yardsmore, and then it died.

Ahead of him, at the limits of the headlight beam, Peter saw the whitegates of La Pierre Benite. They had set the ambush at the point wherethey could screen out most extraneous traffic, and gather only thesilver Maserati in their net.

He cast his mind back swiftly, recalling the lie of the land beyond themain gates of the estate. He had been here only once before, and ithad been dark then also but he had the soldier's eye for ground, and heremembered thick forest on both sides of the road, down to a low bridgeover a narrow fast flowing stream with steep banks, a hard left handerand a climb up to the house. The house was half a mile beyond thegates, a long way to go with a body hit and at least four armed menfollowing, and no guarantee that he would be safe there either.

The Maserati was coasting down the slight incline towards the gates,slowing as it ran out of momentum, and now there was the hot smell ofoil and burning rubber. The paintwork of the engine hood began toblister and disco lour

Peter switched off the ignition to stop the electric pump spraying morefuel onto the burning engine and he slipped his hand into his jacket.He found the wound where he had expected it low and left. It wasbeginning to sting and his hand came away sticky and slick with blood.He wiped it on his thigh.

Behind him was the reflected glow of headlights in the rain, a halo oflight growing stronger. At any moment they would come through thebend, and he opened the glove compartment.

The 9 men. Cobra gave some little comfort as he slipped it from itsholster and thrust it into the front of his belt.

There was no spare magazine and the breech was empty, a safetyconsideration which he now regretted, for it left him with only ninerounds in the magazine one more might make a lot of difference.

Pretty little fingers of bright flame were waving at him from under thebonnet of the engine compartment, finding the hinge and joint, probingthe ventilation slot on the top surface. Peter released his seat belt,held open the door and steered with his other hand for the verge. Herethe road was banked and dropped away steeply.

He flicked the wheel back the opposite way and let the change ofdirection eject him neatly, throwing him clear, while the Maseratiswerved back into the centre of the road and rolled away, slowinggradually.

He landed as though from a parachute drop, feet and knees togethercushioning the impact and then rolled into it. Pain flared in his-shoulder and he felt something tear.

He came up in a crouch and ran doubled over for the edge of the woods,and the burning auto lit the dark trees with flickering orange light.

The fingers of his left hand felt swollen and numb as he pumped a roundinto the chamber of the Cobra, and at that moment the headlights beyondthe bend flared with shocking brilliance and Peter had the illusion ofbeing caught in front stage centre of the Palladium. He went down hardon his belly in the soft rain-sodden earth, but still his wound jarredand he felt the warm trickle of running blood under his shirt as hecrawled desperately for the tree line.

The police van roared down the stretch of road. Peter flattened andpressed his face to the earth, and it smelled of leaf mould and fungus.The van roared past where he lay.

Three hundred yards down the road the Maserati had coasted to a halt,two wheels still on the road, the offside wheels over the verge so shestood at an abandoned angle, burning merrily.

The van pulled up at a respectful distance from it, aware of the dangerof explosion, and a single figure, the gendarme in his plastic cape,ran forward, took one look into the cab and shouted something. Thelanguage sounded like French, but the flames were beginning to drumfiercely and the range too long to hear clearly.

The van locked into a U-turn, bumped over the verge, and then startedback slowly. The two erstwhile accident victims, still carrying theirmachine pistols, running ahead like hounds on leash, one on each sideof the road, heads down as they searched for signs in the softshoulders of the road. The white-caped gendarme rode on therunning-board of the van, calling encouragement to the hunters.

Peter was up again, doubled over, heading for the edge of the forest,and he ran into the barbed wire fence at full stretch. It brought himdown heavily. He felt the slash of steel through the cloth of histrousers, and as he gathered himself again, he thought bitterly.

One hundred and seventy guineas. The suit had been tailored in SavileRow. He crawled between the strands of armed wire, and there was ashout behind him. They had picked up his spoor, and as he dodgedacross the last few yards of open ground, another sharper, morejubilant shout.

They had spotted him in the towering firelight of the blazing Maserati,and again there was the tearing rip of automatic fire; but it wasextreme range for the short barrel and low velocity ammunition. Peterheard passing shot like a whisper of bats" wings in the darkness abovehim and then he reached the first trees and ducked behind one ofthem.

He found he was breathing deeply, but with a good easy rhythm. Thewound wasn't handicapping him yet, and he was into the cold reasoningrage that combat always instilled in him.

The range to the barbed wire fence was fifty metres, he judged, it wasone of his best distances International pistol standard out-of-handwith a 50-men. X circle but there were no judges out here and he tooka double-handed grip, and let them run into the fence just as he haddone.

It brought two of them down, and the cries of angry distress weredefinitely in French; as they struggled to their feet again they wereprecisely back-lit by the flames, and the Cobra had a luminousforesight. Peter went for the midsection of one of the machinegunners.

The 9 men. had a vicious whip-crack report, and punched into flesh andbone with 385 foot-pounds of energy. The strike of the bullet soundedlike a watermelon hit with the full swing of a baseball bat. It liftedthe man off his feet, and threw him backwards, and Peter swung onto thenext target, but they were pros. Even though the fire from the edge ofthe woods had come as a complete surprise, they reacted instantly, anddisappeared flat against the dark earth. They gave him no target, andPeter was too low on ammunition to throw down holding fire.

One of them fired a burst of automatic and it tore bark and wood andleaves along the edge of the trees. Peter fired at the muzzle flashonly once as a warning and then ducked away and, keeping his head downto avoid lucky random fire, sprinted back into the woods.

They would be held up for two or three minutes by the fence and by thethreat of coming under fire again, and Peter wanted to open some groundbetween them during that time.

The glow of the burning Maserati kept him well orientated and he movedquickly towards the river; however, before he had covered two yards hewas starting to shiver uncontrollably. His two-piece city suit wassoaked by the persistent drizzle and by the shower from each bush hebrushed against. His shoes were light calf leather with leather solesand he had stepped in puddles of mud, and the knee-high grass, wassodden. The cold struck through his clothing; he could feel his woundstiffening agonizingly and the first nauseating grip of shock tightenedhis belly, but he paused every fifty yards or so and listened forsounds of pursuit. Once he heard the sound of a car engine from thedirection of the road, passing traffic probably, and he wondered whatthey would make of the abandoned police vehicle and the blazingMaserati. Even if it was reported to the real police, it would be allover before a patrol arrived and Peter discounted the chance ofassistance from that quarter.

He was beginning now to be puzzled by the total lack of any sign offurther pursuit, and he looked for and found a good stance in which towait for it. There was a fallen oak tree and he wriggled in under thetrunk, with a clear avenue of retreat, good cover and a low positionfrom which any pursuer would be silhouetted against the sky glow of theburning Maserati. There were only three pursuers now, and sevencartridges in the Cobra. If it were not for the cold and thedemoralizing ache through his upper body, he might have felt moreconfident, but the nagging terror of the hunted animal was still onhim.

He waited five minutes, lying completely still, every sense tuned toits finest, the Cobra held out in extended double grip, ready to rollleft or right and take the shot as it came. There was no sound but thedrip and plop of the rain-soaked woods.

Another ten minutes passed before it occurred to him suddenly that thepursuers must now realize that the wrong quarry had sprung their trap.They were setting for Magda Altmann, and it must be clear to them thatthey had a man, and an armed one at that. He pondered theirreaction.

Almost certainly they would pull out now, or had already done so.

Instead of a lady worth twenty or thirty million dollars in ransommoney, they must realize they had one of her employees, probably anarmed bodyguard, who was driving the Maserati either as a decoy ormerely as delivery driver.

Yes, he decided, they would pull out take their casualty and melt away,and Peter was sure they would leave no clues to their identity. Hewould have enjoyed the opportunity to question one of them, he thought,and grimaced at a new lance of pain in the shoulder.

He waited another ten minutes, utterly still and alert, controlling thespasms of cold and reaction that shook him, then he rose quietly andmoved back towards the river. The Maserati must have burned outcompletely now for the sky was black again and he had to rely on hisown sense of direction to keep orientated. Even though he knew he wasalone, he paused every fifty yards to listen and look.

He heard the river at last. It was directly ahead and very close.

He moved a little faster and almost walked off the bank in the dark. He squatted to rest for a moment, for the shoulder was very painfulnow, and the cold was draining his energy.

The prospect of wading the river was particularly uninviting The rainhad fallen without a break for days now, and the water sounded powerfuland swift it would certainly be icy cold, and probably shoulder deeprather than waist deep. The bridge must be only a few hundred yardsdownstream, and he stood up and moved along the bank.

Cold and pain can sap concentration very swiftly, and Peter had to makea conscious effort to keep himself alert, and he felt for everyfoothold before transferring his weight forward. He held the Cobrahanging at full stretch of his right arm, but ready for instant use,and he blinked his eyes clear of the fine drizzle of rain and the coldsweat of pain and fear.

Yet it was his sense of smell that alerted him. The rank smell ofstale Turkish tobacco smoke on a human body, it was a smell that hadalways offended him, and now he picked it up instantly, even though itwas just one faint whiff.

Peter froze in mid stride while his brain raced to adjust to theunexpected. He had almost convinced himself that he was alone.

Now he remembered the sound of a car engine on the main road, and herealized that men who had set up such an elaborate decoy the fakedmotor accident, the police van and uniform would certainly have takenthe trouble to plot and study the ground between the ambush point andthe victim's intended destination.

They would know better than Peter himself the layout of woods and riverand bridge, and would have realized immediately they had taken theirfirst casualty that futility of blundering pursuit through the dark. Itwas the smart thing to circle back and wait again, and they wouldchoose the river bank or the bridge itself.

The only thing that troubled Peter was their persistence.

They must know it was not Magda Altmann, and then even in this tensemoment of discovery he remembered the Citroin that had followed himdown the Champs-Elyses nothing was what it appeared to be, and slowlyhe completed the step in which he had frozen.

He stood utterly still, poised every muscle and every nerve screwed toits finest pitch, but the night was black and the rush of the rivercovered all sound. Peter waited.

The other man will always move if you wait long enough, and he waitedwith the patience of the stalking leopard, although the cold struckthrough to his bones and the rain slid down his cheeks and neck.

The man moved at last. The squelch of mud and the unmistakeable brushof undergrowth against cloth, then silence. He was very close, withinten feet, but there was no glimmer of light, and Peter shifted hisweight carefully to face the direction of the sound. The old trick wasto fire one shot at the sound and use the muzzle flash to light thetarget for a second shot which followed it in almost the same instantof time but there were three of them and at ten feet that machinepistol could cut a man in half. Peter waited.

Then from upstream there was the sound of a car engine again, stillfaint but fast approaching. Immediately somebody whistled faintly, arising double note in the night up towards the bridge, clearly someprearranged signal. A car door banged shut, much closer than the soundof the approaching engine and a starter whirred, another harsher engineroared into life, headlights flared through the rain, and Peter blinkedas the whole scene ahead of him lit up.

A hundred yards ahead the bridge crossed the stream, the surface of thewater was shiny and black as new-mined coal as it flowed about thesupporting piles.

The blue van had parked on the threshold of the bridge, obviously towait for Peter, but now it was pulling out, probably alarmed by -theapproach of the other more powerful engine from the direction of LaPierre Benite. The driver was heading back towards the main road, thephoney gendarme scrambling alongside with his cape flapping as he triedto scramble through the open offside door and out of the darkness,close to Peter, a voice cried out with alarm.

"Attender!" The third man had no desire to be left by his companions,and he ran forward, abandoning all attempt at concealment. He had hisback to Peter now, waving the machine pistol frantically, clearlyoutlined by the headlights of the van, and the range was under tenfeet. It was a dead shot, and Peter went for it instinctively and onlyat the very instant of trigger pressure that would have sent a 95 grambullet between his shoulder blades was Peter able to check himself.

The man's back was turned and the range would make it murder; Peter'straining should have cured him of such nice gentlemanly distinctions.However, what really held his trigger finger was the need to know.Peter had to know who these people were and who had sent them, and whatthey had been sent to do, who they were after.

Now that the man was being deserted, he had abandoned all stealth andwas running as though he were chasing a bus, and Peter saw the chanceto take him. Roles had been exchanged completely, and Peter dartedforward, transferring the Cobra to his injured left hand.

He caught the man in four paces, keeping low to avoid his peripheralvision, and he whipped his good right arm around the throat, going forthe half nelson and the spin that would disorientate the man before heslammed the barrel of the Cobra against the temple.

The man was quick as a cat, something warned him perhaps the squelch ofPeter's sodden shoes, and he ducked his chin onto his chest rolling hisshoulders and beginning to turn back into the line of Peter's attack.

Peter missed the throat and caught him high, the crook of his elbowlocking about the man's mouth, and the unexpected turn had thrown himslightly off balance. If he had had full use of his left arm, he couldstill have spun his victim, but in an intuitive flash he realized thathe had lost the advantage, already the man was twisting his head out ofthe arm lock bulking his shoulders, and by the feel of him, Peter knewinstantly that he was steel-hard with muscle.

The barrel of the machine pistol was short enough to enable him topress the muzzle into Peter's body just as soon as he completed histurn; it would tear Peter to pieces like a chain saw.

Peter changed his grip slightly, no longer opposing the man's turn, butthrowing all his weight and the strength of his right arm into the samedirection; they spun together like a pair of waltzing dancers, butPeter knew that the moment they broke apart the man would have thekilling advantage again.

The river was his one chance, he realized that instinctively, andbefore the advantage passed back from him to his adversary, he hurledhimself backwards, keeping his grip on the man's head.

They went out into black space, falling together in a shortgut-swooping drop with Peter underneath. If there was rock below thesteep bank of the river, he realized he would be crushed by the other'sweight.

They struck the surface of the fast water, and freezing cold strucklike a club so that Peter almost released the air from his lungs as areflex.

The shock of cold water seemed to have stunned the man in his gripmomentarily, and Peter felt the whoosh of air from his lungs as he letgo. Peter changed his grip, wedging his elbow under the chin, but notquite able to get at the throat immediately the man began the wildpanic stricken struggles of somebody held under icy water with emptylungs.

He had lost the machine pistol, for he was tearing at Peter's arms andface with both hands as the water swirled them both end over end downtowards the bridge.

Peter had to keep him from getting air, and as he held his own precioussingle breath, he tried to get on top and stay there.

Fingers hooked at his closed eyes, and then into his mouth as the manreached back desperately over his own shoulders. Peter opened hismouth slightly and the other man thrust his fingers deeply in, tryingto tear at his tongue.

Immediately Peter locked his teeth into the fingers with a force thatmade his jaw ache at the hinges, and his mouth filled with thesickening warm spurt of the other man's blood.

Fighting his own revulsion, he hung on desperately with teeth and arms.He had lost his own weapon, dropping it into the black flood fromnumbed and crippled fingers, and the man was fighting now with theanimal strength of his starved lungs and mutilated fingers; every timehe tried to yank his hand out of Peter's mouth the flesh tore audiblyin Peter's ears and fresh blood made him gag and choke.

They came out on the surface and through streaming eyes Peter had oneglimpse of the bridge looming above him. The blue van had disappeared,but Magda Altmann's Mercedes limousine was parked in the centre of thebridge, and in the wash of its headlights he recognized her twobodyguards. They were leaning far out over the guardrail, and Peterhad a moment's dread that one of them might try a shot then they wereflung into the concrete piles of the bridge with such force that theylost the death lock they had upon each other.

The back eddy beyond the bridge swung them in towards the bank. Gasping and swallowing with cold and exhaustion and pain, Peter foughtfor footing on gravel and rock. The machine-gunner had found bottomalso and was stumbling desperately towards the bank. In the headlightsof the limousine Peter saw Magda's two bodyguards racing back acrossthe bridge to head him off.

Peter realized that he would not be able to catch the man before hereached the bank.

"Carl!" he screamed at the bodyguard who was leading.

"Stop him. Don't let him get away."

The bodyguard vaulted over the guardrail, landing cat like in completebalance, with the pistol double-handed at the level of his navel.

Below him the machine-gunner dragged himself waist deep towards thebank. It was only then that Peter realized what was going to happen.

"No!" He choked on blood and water. "Take him alive.

Don't kill him, Carl!" The bodyguard had not heard, or had notunderstood.

The muzzle blast seemed to join him and the wallowing figure in theriver below him, a blood-orange rope of flame and thunderous explosion.The bullets smacked into the machine-gunner's chest and belly like anaxe man cutting down a tree.

"No!" Peter yelled helplessly. "Oh Jesus, no! No!" Peter lungedforward and caught the corpse before it slid below the black water, andhe dragged it by one arm to the bank. The bodyguards took it from himand hauled it up, the head lolling like an idiot's, and the blooddiluted to pale pink in the reflected headlights.

Peter made three attempts to climb the bank, each time slithering backtiredly into the water, then Carl reached down and gripped his wrist.

Peter knelt on the muddy bank, still choking with the water and bloodhe had swallowed, and he retched weakly.

"Peter!" Magda's voice rang with concern, and he looked up and wipedhis mouth on the back of his forearm. She had slipped out of the backdoor of the limousine and was running back along the bridge,long-legged in black boots and ski-pants, her face dead white withconcern and her eyes frantic with worry.

Peter pushed himself onto his feet and swayed drunkenly.

She reached him and caught him, steadying him as he teetered.

"Peter, Oh God, darling. What happened-"

"This beauty and some of his friends wanted to take you for a ride andthey got the wrong address." They stared down at the corpse. Carl hadused a .357 magnum and the damage was massive. Magda turned her headaway.

"I wonder what you would have done if I'd said to really clobber him."Peter began to turn away with disgust, and pain checked him. Hegasped.

"You're hurt." Magda's "concern returned in full strength.

"Take his other arm," she ordered Carl, and they helped him over theparapet to the limousine.

Peter stripped off the torn and sodden remains of his clothing andMagda wrapped him in the Angora wool travel rug before examining hiswound under the interior light of the cab.

The bullet hole was a perfect little blue puncture in the smooth skin,already surrounded by a halo of inflammation, and the bullet wastrapped between his ribs and the sheet of flat, hard trapeziummuscles.

She could see the outline of it quite clearly, the size of a ripe acornin his flesh, swollen out angry purple.

"Thank God-" she whispered, and unwound the jean Patou scarf from herlong pale throat. She bound the wound carefully. "We'll take youdirectly to the hospital at Versailles. Drive fast, Carl." She openedthe walnut-fronted cocktail cabinet in the body work beside her andpoured half a tumbler of whisky from the crystal decanter.

It washed the taste of blood from Peter's mouth and then went warmlyall the way down his throat to soothe the cramps of cold and shock inhis belly.

"What made you come?" he asked, his voice still rough with the fiercespirit, the timely arrival nagged at his sense of rightness.

"a report a car smash they knew the Maserati, and the inspector rang LaPierre Benite immediately. I guessed something bad-" At that momentthey reached the gates at the main road. The remains of the Maseratilay smouldering on the side of the road; around it like boy scoutsaround a camp fire were half a dozen gendarmes in their white plasticcapes and pillbox kepis. They seemed uncertain of what they should donext.

Carl slowed the limousine and Magda spoke tersely through the window toa sergeant, who treated her with immense respect. "Oui, madame laBaronne, d'accord. Tout d fait vrai-" She dismissed him with a finalnod, and he and his men saluted the departing limousine.

"They will find the body at the bridge-"

"There may be another one on the edge of the forest there-"

"You are very good, aren't you?" She slanted her eyes at him.

"The really good ones don't get hit," he said, and smiled at her. Thewhisky had taken some of the sting and stiffness out of the wound andunknotted his guts. It was good to still be alive, he started toappreciate that again.

"You were right about the Maserati then they were waiting for it."

"That's why I burned it," he told her, but she did not answer hissmile.

"Oh, Peter. You'll never know how I felt. The police told me that thedriver of the Maserati was still in it and had been burned. I thoughtI felt as though part of me had been destroyed. It was the mostterrifying feeling-" She shivered. "I nearly did not come, I didn'twant to see it. I nearly sent my wolves, but then I had to know. Carlsaw you in the river as we turned onto the bridge. He said it was you,I just couldn't believe it-" She stopped herself and shuddered at thememory. "Tell me what happened, tell me all of it," she demanded andpoured more whisky into his tumbler.

For some reason that he was not sure of himself, Peter did not mentionthe Citroin that had followed him out of Paris. He told himself thatit could not have been relevant.

It must have been a coincidence, for if the driver of the Citron hadbeen one of them he would have been able to telephone ahead and warnthe others that Baroness Magda Altmann was not in the Maserati, so thatwould have meant that they were not after her but after him, PeterStride, and that didn't make sense because he had only set himself upas bait that very morning, and they would not have had time yet. Hestopped the giddy carousel of thoughts shock and whisky, he toldhimself. There would be time later to think it all out more carefully.Now he would simply believe that they were waiting for Magda, and hehad run into their net. He told it that way, beginning from the momentthat he had seen the police van parked in the road. Magda listenedwith complete attention, the huge eyes clinging to his face, and shetouched him every few moments as if to reassure herself.

When Carl parked under the portico of the emergency entrance of thehospital, the police had radioed ahead and there were an intern and twonurses waiting for Peter with a theatre trolley.

Before she opened the door to let them take Peter, Magda leaned to himand kissed him full on the lips.

"I'm so very glad to have you still," she whispered, and then with herlips still very close to his ear she went on. "It was Caliph again,wasn't it?" He shrugged slightly, grimaced at the stab of pain, andanswered, "I can't think of anyone else offhand that would do such aprofessional job." Magda walked beside the trolley as far as thetheatre doors, and she was beside his bed in the curtained cubic leashe struggled up through the deadening, suffocating false death of theanaesthetic.

The French doctor was with her, and he produced the gruesomeblood-clotted souvenir with a magician's flourish.

"I did not have to cut," he told Peter proudly. "Probe only." Thebullet had mushroomed impressively, had certainly lost much of itsvelocity in penetrating the body work of the Maserati. "You are a verylucky man," the doctor went on. "You are in fine condition, muscleslike a racehorse that stopped the bullet going deep. You will be wellagain very soon."

"I have promised to look after you, so he is letting you come homenow." Magda hovered over him also. "Aren't you, doctor?" "You willhave one of the world's most beautiful nurses." The doctor bowedgallantly towards Magda with a certain wistfulness in his expression.

The doctor was right, the bullet wound gave him less discomfort thanthe tears in his thighs from the barbed wire, but Magda Altmann behavedas though he were suffering from an irreversible and terminaldisease.

When she did have to go up to her office suite in the Boulevard desCapucines the next day, she telephoned three times for no other reasonthan to make sure he was still alive and to ask for his size in shoesand clothing. The cavalcade of automobiles carrying her and herentourage were back at La Pierre Brute while it was still daylight.

"You are keeping civil service hours," he accused when she camedirectly to the main guest suite overlooking the terraced lawns and theartificial lake.

"I knew you were missing me," she explained, and kissed him beforebeginning to scold him. "Roberto tells me you have been wanderingaround in the rain. The doctor said you were to stay in bed. TomorrowI will have to stay here to take care of you myself." "Is that athreat?" he grinned at her. "For that sort of punishment I would letCaliph shoot another hole-" Swiftly she laid her fingers on his lips."Peter, cuM, don't joke like that." And the shadow that passed acrossher eyes was touched with fear, then immediately she was smiling again."Look what I have bought you." Peter's valise had been in the trunk ofthe Maserati, and she had replaced it with one in black crocodile fromHennes. To fill it she must have started at the top end of theFaubourg St. Honore and worked her way down to the Place Vendeme.

"I had forgotten how much fun it is to buy presents for one who you-"She did not finish the sentence, but held up a brocade silkdressing-gown. " Everybody in St. Laurent knew what I was thinkingwhen I chose this." She had forgotten nothing. Shaving gear, silkhandkerchiefs and underwear, a blue blazer, slacks and shoes fromGucci, even cufflinks in plain gold, each set with a small sapphire.

"You have such blue eyes," she explained. "Now I will go and makemyself respectable for dinner. I told Roberto we would eat here, forthere are no other guests tonight." She had changed from the gunmetalbusiness suit and turban into floating cloud-light layers of gossamersilk, and her hair was down to her waist, more lustrous than thecloth.

"I will open the champagne," she said. "It needs two hands." He worethe brocade gown, with his left arm still in a sling, and they stoodand admired each other over the top of the champagne glasses.

"I was right." She nodded comfortably. "Blue is your colour. Youmust wear it more often." And he had to smile at the quaintcompliment, and touched her glass with his.

The crystal pinged musically and they saluted each other before theydrank. Immediately she set the glass aside, and her expression becameserious.

"I spoke with my friends in the Sorete. They agree that it was akidnap attempt against me, and because I asked it, they will nottrouble you to make a statement until you feel better. I told them tosend a man tomorrow to speak to you.

There was no sign of the second man you shot at on the edge of thewoods, he must have been able to walk or been carried by his friends.""And the other man?" Peter asked. "The dead one."

"They know him well.

He had a very ugly past. Algeria with the par as The mutiny." Shespread her hands eloquently. "My friends were very surprised that hehad not killed you when he tried to do so. I did not say too muchabout your own past. It is better, I think?"

"It's better," Peter agreed.

"When I am with you like this, I forget that you also are a verydangerous man." She stopped and examined his face carefully. "Or isit part of the reason I find you so-" she searched for the word " socompelling? You have such a gentle manner, Peter. Your voice is sosoft and-" She shrugged. "But there is something in the way you smilesometimes, and in certain light your eyes are so blue and hard andcruel. Then I remember that you have killed many men. Do you thinkthat is what attracts me?"

"I hope it is not."

"Some women are excited by blood and violence the bullfight, the prizering, there are always as many women as men at these, and I havewatched their faces. I have thought about myself, and still I do notknow it all. I know only that I am attracted by strong men, powerfulmen.

Aaron was such a man. I have not found many others since then."

"Cruelty is not strength," Peter told her.

"No, a truly strong man has that streak of gentleness and compassion.You are so strong, and yet when you make love to me it is with extremegentleness, though I can always feel the strength and cruelty there,held in hate, like the falcon under the hood." She moved away acrossthe room furnished in cream and chocolate and gold, and she tugged theembroidered bell-pull that dangled from the corruced ceiling with itshand-painted panels, pastoral scenes of the type that Marie Antoinettehad so admired. Peter knew that much of the furnishing of La PierreBrute had been purchased at the auction sales with which therevolutionary committee dispersed the accumulated treasures of theHouse of Bourbon. With the other treasures there were flowers,wherever Magda Altmann went there were flowers.

She came back to him as Roberto, the Italian butler, supervised theentry of the dinner trolley, and then Roberto filled the wine glasseshimself, handling the bottles with white gloves as though they werepart of the sacrament, and stationed himself ready to serve the meal,but Magda dismissed him with a curt gesture and he bowed himself outsilently.

There was a presentation-wrapped parcel at Peter's place setting,tissue paper and an elaborately tied red ribbon. He looked up at herinquiringly as she served the soup into fragile Limoges bowls.

"Once I began buying presents, I could not stop myself," she explained."Besides, I kept thinking that bullet might have been in my back." Thenshe was impatient. "Are you not going to open it?" He did socarefully, and then was silent.

"Africa, it is your speciality, is it not?" she asked anxiously."Nineteenth-century Africa?" He nodded, and reverently opened thecover of the volume in its bed of tissue paper. It was fully bound inmaroon leather, and the state of preservation was quite extraordinary,only the dedication on the flyleaf in the author's handwriting wasfaded yellow.

"Where on earth did you find this?" he demanded. "It was at Sotheby'sin 1971. I bid on it then." He had dropped out of the bidding at fivethousand pounds.

"You do not have a first edition of Cornwallis Harris?" she askedagain anxiously, and he shook his head, examining one of the perfectlypreserved colour plates of African big game.

"No, I do not. But how did you know that?"

"Oh, I know as much about you as you do yourself," she laughed. "Doyou like it?"

"It is magnificent. I am speechless." The gift was too extravagant,even for someone of her fortune. It troubled him, and he was remindedof the comedy situation of the husband who brings home flowersunexpectedly and is immediately accused by his wife. "Why do you havea guilty conscience?"

"Do you truly like it? I know so little about books."

"It is the one edition I need to complete my major works," he said."And it is probably the finest specimen left outside the BritishMuseum." "I'm so glad." She was genuinely relieved. "I was trulyworried." And she put down the silver soup ladle and lifted both armsto welcome his embrace.

During the meal she was gay and talkative, and only when Roberto hadwheeled away the trolley and they settled side by side on thedown-filled couch before the fire did her mood change again.

"Peter, today I have been unable to think of anything but this businessyou and me and Caliph. I have been afraid, and I am still afraid. Ikeep thinking of Aaron, what they did to him and then I think of youand what nearly happened." They were silent, staring into the flamesand sipping

"JAVA

coffee from the demi-tosses, then suddenly she had changed directionagain. He was growing accustomed to these mercurial switches inthought.

"I have an island not one island, but nine little islands and in thecintre of them is a lagoon nine kilometres wide. The water is so clearyou can see the fish fifty feet down. There is an airstrip on the mainatoll. just under two hours" flying time to Tahiti. Nobody would everknow we were there. We could swim all day, walk in the sand, make loveunder the stars. You would be king of the islands, and I would be yourqueen. No more Altmann Industries I would find somebody as good orbetter than myself to run it. No more danger. No more fear. No moreCaliph no more-" She stopped abruptly, as though she had been about tocommit herself too far, but she went on quickly.

"It's a pretty thought." He turned to her, feeling deep and genuineregret.

"It would work for us. We would make it work." And he said nothing,just watching her eyes, until she looked away and sighed.

"No." She mirrored his regret. "You are right. Neither of us couldever give up living like that. We have to go on but, Peter, I am soafraid. I am afraid of what I know about you and of what I do notknow. I am afraid of what you do not know about me, and what I nevercan tell you but we must go on. You are right. We have to findCaliph, and then destroy him. But, oh God, I pray we do not destroyourselves, what we have found together I pray we will be able to keepthat intact."

"The best way to conjure up emotional disaster is to talk about it."

"All right, let's play riddles instead. My turn first. What is themost miserable experience known to the human female?"

"I

give up."

"Sleeping alone on a winter's night."

"Salvation is at hand, "he promised her.

"But what about your poor shoulder?"

"If we combine our vast talents and wisdom, I am sure we will managesomething."

"I think you are right," she purred and nestled against him like asleek and silken cat. "As always." There is always a delightfullydecadent feeling about buying underwear for a beautiful woman, andPeter was amused by the knowing air of the middle-aged sales lady. Sheclearly had her own ideas about the relationship, and slyly produced atray filled with filmy lace and iniquitously expensive wisps of silk.

"Yes," Melissa Jane approved rapturously. "Those are exactly-" Sheheld one of them to her cheek, and the sales lady preened at her ownforesight. Peter hated to disillusion her, and he played the role ofsugar-daddy a few moments longer as he glanced up at the mirror behindher head.

The tail was still there, a nondescript figure in a grey overcoat,browsing through a display of brassieres across the hall with the avidinterest and knowledgeable air of a closet queen.

"Oh, please, Daddy. I will be fourteen next month." They had had atail on him since he had arrived at Heathrow the previous afternoon,and Peter could not decide who they were. He began to regret he hadnot yet replaced the Cobra he had lost in the river.

"I think we'd better play it safe-" Peter told his daughter, and bothMelissa-Jane and the sales lady looked crestfallen.

"Daddy, you can be so medieval, honestly!" He glanced at the mirroragain, and they were changing the guard across the sales hall. The manin the shabby grey overcoat and checked woollen scarf drifted away anddisappeared into one of the lifts. It would take some little time forPeter to spot his replacement and then he grinned to himself-, no itwould not. Here he came now. He wore a tweed sports jacket in afrantic hounds tooth pattern, above Royal Stewart tartan trews and agrin like an amiable toad.

"Son of a gun. This is a surprise." He came up behind Peter and hithim an open-handed blow between the shoulder blades that made Peterwince. At least he knew who they were at last.

"Colin." He turned and took the massive paw with its covering of wiryblack hair across the back. "Yes, it is a surprise. I've been fallingover your gorillas since yesterday." oafs" Colin Noble agreed amiably."All of them, oafs!" And turned to seize Melissa-Jane. "You'rebeautiful, he told her and kissed her with more than avuncularenthusiasm.

"It's you, honey. You've just got to have them." "Tell my father,won't you?" Colin looked around the Dorchester suite and grunted."This is really living. You don't get it this good in this man'sarmy."

"Daddy is truly becoming a bloated plutocrat just like Uncle Steven,"Melissa-jane agreed.

"I notice that you and Vanessa and the other comrades all wear lacepanties," Peter counter-attacked his daughter.

"That's different." Melissa-Jane back-tracked swiftly, and hugged thegreen Harrod's package defensively. "You can have a social consciencewithout dressing like a peasant, you know."

"Sounds like a good life." Peter threw his overcoat across the couchand crossed to the liquor cabinet. "Bourbon?"

"On the rocks," said Colin.

"Is there a sweet sherry?" Melissa-Jane asked.

"There is Coke," Peter answered. "And you can take it through to yourown room, young lady."

"Oh Daddy, I haven't seen Uncle Colin for ages."

"Scat, said Peter, and when she had gone, sweet sherry, forsooth."

"It's a crying bastard when they start growing up and they look likethat." Colin took the glass from Peter and rattled the ice cubestogether as he lay back in the armchair.

"Aren't you going to congratulate me?"

"With pleasure." Peter took his own glass and stood at the windows,against the backdrop of bare branches and grey misty skies over HydePark. "What did you do?"

"Come on, Pete! Thor they gave me your job, after you walked out."

"Before they fired me."

"After you walked out," Colin repeated firmly. He took a sip of theBourbon and gargled it loudly. "There are a lot of things we don'tunderstand "Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die."Shakespeare." He was still playing the buffoon, but the small eyeswere as honey bright and calculating as those of a brand new teddy bearon Christmas morning. Now he waved his glass around the suite.

"This is great. Really it's great. You were wasted in Thor everybodyknew that. You must be pulling down more than all the joint-chiefs puttogether now."

"Seven gets you five that you've already seen a Xeroxed copy of mycontract of employment with Narmco." "Narmco!" Colin whistled. "Isthat who you're working for? No kidding, Pete baby, that's terrific!"And Peter had to laugh, it was a form of capitulation.

He came across and took the seat opposite Colin.

"Who sent you, Colin?"

"That's a lousy question-"

"That's just an opener."

"Why should somebody have sent me? Couldn't I just want to chew thefat with an old buddy?"

"He sent you because he worked it out that I might bust the jaw ofanybody else."

"Sure now and everybody knows we love each other like brothers."

"What's the message, Colin?" "Congratulations, Peter baby, I am hereto tell you that you have just won yourself a return ticket to the BigApple." He placed one hand across his heart and sang with asurprisingly mellow baritone. "New York, New York, it's a won erfultown." Peter sat staring impassively at Colin, but he was thinkingswiftly. He knew he had to go. Somehow he was certain that somethingwas surfacing through muddied waters, the parts were beginning to clicktogether. This was the sort of thing he had hoped for when he put theword on the wind.

Colin Noble did most of the talking, around the stub of his cheroot. Itwas shop, Thor shop, training and personnel details, small anecdotesabout men and things they both knew well and he made no effort toquestion Peter about his job and Narmco, other than to remark that hewould have Peter back in London for the series of Narmco meetings hehad arranged starting on the following Monday. It was a deliberate andnot very subtle intimation of just how much Atlas knew about Peter andhis new activities.

They landed at Kennedy a little after midnight, and there was an armydriver to take them to a local Howard Johnson for six hours" sleep,that kind of deep black coma induced by jet-lag.

Peter still felt prickly-eyed and woollen-headed as he watched with afeeling of disbelief as Colin devoured one of those amazing Americanbreakfasts of waffles and maple syrup, wieners and bacon and eggs,sugar cakes and sticky buns, washed down with countless draughts offruit juice and coffee. Then Colin lit his first cheroot andannounced, "Hell, now I know I'm home. Only now I realize I've beenslowly fading away with malnutrition for two years." The same armydriver was waiting for them at the front entrance of the motel. TheCadillac was an indication of their status in the military hierarchy.Peter looked out with detachment from the air-conditioned and paddedinterior onto the brooding ghettoes of Harlem. From the elevatedhighway along the East River, it reminded Peter of a deserted battleground where a few survivors lurked in dark doorways or scuttled alongthe littered and pitted sidewalks in the cold misty morning. Only thegraffiti that adorned the bare brick walls had passion and vitality.

Their drive caught the junction of Fifth and One Hundred and EleventhStreet, and ran south down the park past the Metropolitan Art Museum inthe thickening rush, hour traffic, then slipped off and into thecavernous mouth of a parking garage beneath one of the monolithicstructures that seemed to reach to the grey cold heavens.

The garage entrance was posted "Residents Only', but the doorman raisedthe electronically controlled grid and waved them through. Colin ledPeter to the bank of elevators and they rode up with thestomach-dropping swoop while the lights above the elevator doorrecorded their ascent to the very top of the building.

There they stepped out into a reception area protected by ornamental,but none the less functional screens.

A guard in military police uniform and wearing a sidearm surveyed themthrough the grille and checked Colin's Atlas pass against his registerbefore allowing them through.

The apartment occupied the entire top level of the building, for therewere hanging gardens beyond the sliding glass panels and a view acrossthe sickening canyons of space to the other tall structures fartherdown Island the Pan Am building and the twin towers of the World TradeCenter.

The decor was Oriental, stark interiors in which were displayed worksof art that Peter knew from his previous visit were of incalculablevalue antique Japanese brush paintings on silk panels, carvings in jadeand ivory, a display of tiny netsuke and in an atrium through whichthey passed was a miniature forest of Bonsai trees in their shallowceramic bowls, the frozen contortions of their trunks and branches asign of their great age.

Incongruously, the exquisite rooms were filled with the thunder of vonKarajan leading the Berlin Philharmonic orchestra through the gloriesof the Eroica.

Beyond the atrium was a plain door of white oak, and Colin Noblepressed the buzzer beside the lintel and almost immediately the doorslid open.

Colin led into a long carpeted room, the ceiling of which was coveredwith acoustic tiles. The room contained besides the crowdedbookshelves and work table an enormous concert piano, and down thefacing wall an array of hi-fi turntables and loudspeakers that wouldhave been more in place in a commercial recording studio.

Kingston Parker stood beside the piano, a heroic figure, tall and heavyin the shoulder, his great shaggy head hanging forward onto his chest,his eyes closed and an expression of almost religious ecstasy glowingupon his face.

The music moved his powerful frame the way the storm wind sways a giantof the forest. Peter and Colin stopped in the doorway, for it seemedan intrusion on such a private, such an intimate moment, but it wasonly a few seconds before he became aware of them and lifted his head.He seemed to shake off the spell of the music with the shudder that aspaniel uses to shake itself free of water when it reaches dry land,and he lifted the arm of the turntable from the spinning black disc.

"Coffee then," said Parker, and spoke quietly into the intercom set,before turning back to them.

"Where to begin?" Parker combed the thick greying hair back with bothhands, leaving it even more tousled than it had been.

"Begin at the beginning," Peter suggested. "As the King of Hearts saidto Alice."

"At the beginning-" Parker smiled softly. All right, at the beginningI opposed your involvement with Atlas."

"I know."

"I

did not expect that you would accept the Thor command, it was a stepbackwards in your career. You surprised me there, and not for thefirst time." A Chinese manservant in a white jacket with brass buttonscarried in a tray. They were silent as he offered coffee and cream andcoloured crystal sugar and then, when he had gone, Parker went on.

"At that time, my estimate of you, General Stride, was that althoughyou had a record of brilliance and solid achievement, you were anofficer of rigidly old-fashioned thought. The Colonel Blimp mentalitymore suited to trench warfare than to the exigencies of war from theshadows the kind of wars that we are fighting now, and will be forcedto fight in the future." He shook the great shaggy head andunconsciously his fingers caressed the smooth cool ivory keyboard, andhe settled down on the stool before the piano.

"You see, General Stride, I saw the role of Atlas to be too limited bythe original terms of reference placed upon it. I did not believe thatAtlas could do what it was designed for if it was only an arm ofretaliation. If it had to wait for a hostile act before it couldreact, if it had to rely entirely on other organizations with all theirinternecine rivalries and bickerings for its vital intelligence. Ineeded officers who were not only brilliant, but who were capable ofunconventional thought and independent action. I did not believe youhad those qualities, although I studied you very carefully. I wasunable to take you fully into my confidence." Parker's slim fingersevoked a fluent passage from the keyboard as though to punctuate hiswords, and for a moment he seemed completely enraptured by his ownmusic, then he lifted his head again.

"If I had done so, then the conduct of your rescue operation of Flight070 might have been completely different. I have been forced radicallyto revise my estimate of you, General Stride and it was a difficultthing to do. For by demonstrating those qualities which I thought youlacked, you upset my judgement. I admit that personal chagrin swayedmy reasoned judgement and by the time I was thinking straight again youhad been provoked into offering your resignation-" "I know that theresignation was referred to you personally, Doctor Parker and that yourecommended that it be accepted." Peter's voice was very cold, thetone clipped with controlled anger and Parker nodded.

"Yes, you are correct. I endorsed your resignation."

"Then it looks as though we are wasting our time here and now." Peter'slips were compressed into a thin, unforgiving line, and the skin acrosshis cheeks and over the finely chiselled flare of his nostrils seemedtightly drawn and pa leas porcelain.

"Please, General Stride let me explain first." Parker reached out onehand to him as though to physically restrain him from rising, and hisexpression was earnest, compelling. Peter sank back into the couch,his eyes wary and his lips still tight.

"I have to go back a little first, in order to make any sense at all."Parker stood up from the piano and crossed to

?"

the rack of pipes on the work table between the hi-fi equipment.

He selected one carefully, a meerschaum mellowed to the colour ofprecious amber. He blew through the empty pipe and then tramped backacross the thick carpet to stand in front of Peter.

"Some months before the hijacking of 070 six months to be precise, Ihad begun to receive hints that we were entering a new phase in theapplication of international terrorism. Only hints at first, but thesewere confirmed and followed by stronger evidence." Parker was stuffingthe meerschaum from a leather wallet as he spoke, now he zipped thisclosed and tossed it onto the piano top. "What we were looking at wasa consolidation of the forces of violence under some sort ofcentralized control we were not sure what form this control wastaking." He broke off and studied Peter's expression, seemed tomisinterpret it for utter disbelief, for he shook his head. "Yes, Iknow it sounds far-fetched, but I will show you the files. There wasevidence of meetings between known militant leaders and some othershadowy figures, perhaps the representatives of an Eastern government.We were not sure then, nor are we now. And immediately after this acomplete change in the conduct and apparent motivation of militantactivity. I do not really have to detail this for you. Firstly thesystematic accumulation of immense financial reserves by the highlyorganized and carefully planned abduction of prominent figures,starting with the ministers of OPEC, then leading industrialists andfinancial figures-" Parker struck a match and puffed on his pipe andperfumed smoke billowed around his head.

So that it appeared that the motivation had not really changed and wasstill entirely self gain or parochial political gain. Then there wasthe taking of 070. "I had not confided in you before and once you wereon your way to Johannesburg it was too late. I could do nothing morethan try to control your actions by rather heavy-handed commands. Icould not explain to you that we suspected that this was the leadingwave of the new militancy, and that we must allow it to reveal as muchas possible. It was a terrible decision, but I had to gamble a fewhuman lives for vital information and then you acted as I had believedyou were incapable of acting." Parker removed his pipe from his mouthand he smiled; when he smiled you could believe anything he said andforgive him for it, no matter how outrageous. "I admit, GeneralStride, that my first reaction was frustrated rage.

I wanted your head, and your guts also. Then suddenly I began using myown head instead. You had just proved you were the man I wanted, mysoldier capable of unconventional thought and action. If you werediscredited and cast adrift, there was just a chance that this newdirection of militancy would recognize the same qualities in you that Ihad been forced to recognize. If I allowed you to ruin your career,and become an outcast an embittered man, but one with vital skills andinvaluable knowledge, a man who had proved he could be ruthless when itwas necessary-" Parker broke off and made that gesture of appeal. I amsorry, General Stride, but I had to recognize the fact that you wouldbe very attractive to-" he made an impatient gesture I do not have aname for them, shall we just call them "the enemy". I had to recognizethe fact that you would be of very great interest to the enemy. Iendorsed your resignation." He nodded sombrely. "Yes, I endorsed yourresignation, and without your own knowledge you became an Atlas agentat large. It seemed perfect to me.

You did not have to-act a role you believed it yourself.

You were the outcast, the wronged and discredited man ripe forsubversion."

"I don't believe it," Peter said flatly, and Parker went back to thework table, selected an envelope from a Japanese ceramic tray andbrought it back to Peter.

It took Peter a few moments to realize that it was a Bank StatementCredit Suisse in Geneva the account was in his name, and there were astring of deposits. No withdrawals MAde or debits. Each deposit wasfor exactly the same amount, the net salary of a major-general in theBritish Army.

"You see," Parker smiled "you are still drawing your Atlas salary. Youare still one of us, Peter. And all I can say is that I am very sorryindeed that we had to subject you to the pretence but it seems it wasall worth while." Peter looked up at him again, not entirelyconvinced, but with the hostility less naked in his expression.

"What do You mean by that, Doctor Parker?"

"It seems that you are very much back in play again."

"I am Sales Director for Northern Armaments Company," he said flatly.

"Yes, of course, and Narmco is part of the Altmann Industrial Empireand Baron Altmann and his lovely wife are, or rather were, anextraordinarily interesting couple.

For instance, did you know that the Baron was one of the top agents ofMossad in Europe?" impossible," Peter shook his head irritably. "Hewas a Roman Catholic. Israeli intelligence does not make a habit ofrecruiting Catholics."

"Yes," Parker agreed. "His grandfather converted to Catholicism andchanged the name of the family home to La Pierre Brute. It was abusiness decision, that we are certain of, there was not much profit inbeing Jewish in nineteenth-century France. However, the young Altmannwas much influenced by his grandmother and his own mother. He was aZionist from a very early age, and he unswervingly used his enormouswealth and influence in that cause right up until the time of hismurder. Yet he did it so cunningly, with such subtlety that very fewpeople were aware of his connections with uda ism and Zionism.

He never made the mistake of converting back to his ancestral religion,realizing that he could be more effective as a practising Christian."Peter was thinking swiftly. If this was true, then it all had changedshape again. It must affect the reasons for the Baron's death and itwould change the role of Magda Altmann in his life.

"The Baroness?" he asked. "Was she aware of this?"

"Ah, the Baroness!" Kingston Parker removed his pipe from between histeeth, and smiled with reluctant admiration. "What a remarkable lady.We are not certain of very much about her except her beauty and herexceptional talents. We know she was born in Warsaw. Her father was aprofessor of medicine at the university there, and he escaped to theWest when the Baroness was still a child. He was killed a few yearslater, a traffic accident in Paris. Hit and run driver, while theprofessor was leaving his faculty in the Sorbonne. A small mysterystill hangs around his death. The child seems to have drifted fromfamily to family, friends of her father, distant relatives. Shealready was showing academic leanings, musical talent, at thirteen achess player of promise then for a period there is no record of her.She seems to have disappeared entirely. The only hint is from one ofher foster mothers, a very old lady now, with a fading memory. "Ithink she went home for a while she told me she was going home.""Parker spread his hands. "We do not know what that means. Home?

Warsaw? Israel? Somewhere in the East?"

"You have researched her very carefully," Peter said. What he hadheard had left him uneasy.

"Of course, we have done so to every contact you have made sinceleaving Atlas Command. We would have been negligent not to do so butespecially we have been interested in the Baroness. She has been themost fascinating, you understand that, I am sure." Peter nodded, andwaited. He did not want to ask for more. Somehow it seemed disloyalto Magda, distrustful and petty but still he waited and Parker went onquietly.

"Then she was back in Paris. Nineteen years of age now a highlycompetent private secretary, speaking five languages fluently,beautiful, always dressed in the height of fashion, soon with a stringof wealthy, influential and powerful admirers the last of these was heremployer, Baron Aaron Altmann." Parker was silent then, waiting forthe question, forcing Peter to come to meet him.

"Is she Mossad also?"

"We do not know. It is possible but she has covered herself verycarefully. We are rather hoping you will be able to find that out forus."

"I see."

"She must have known that her husband was a Zionist.

She must have suspected that it had something to do with his abductionand murder. Then there are the missing six years of her life fromthirteen to nineteen, where was she?"

"Is she Jewish?" Peter asked. "Was her father Jewish?"

"We believe so, although the professor showed no interest in religionand did not fill in the question on his employment application to theSorbonne. His daughter showed the same lack of religious commitment weknow only that her marriage to the Baron was a Catholic ceremonyfollowed by a civil marriage in Rambouillet."

"We have drifted a long way from international terrorism," Peterpointed out.

"I do not think so." Kingston Parker shook his big shaggy head. "TheBaron was a victim of it, and almost as soon as you one of the world'sleading experts on militancy and urban warfare as soon as you areassociated with her there is an assassination attempt, or an abductionattempt made on the Baroness." Peter was not at all surprised thatParker knew of that night on the road to La Pierre Benite it was only afew days since Peter's arm had been out of the sling.

"Tell me, Peter. What was your estimate of that affair? I have seenan excerpt of the statement that you made to the French police but whatcan you add to that?" Peter had a vivid cameo memory of the Citroenthat had followed him out of Paris, and then almost simultaneously thetearing sound of automatic fire in the night.

"They were after the Baroness," Peter said firmly.

"And you were driving her car?"

"That's right."

"You were at the place at the time that the Baroness usually passed?"

"Right "Who suggested that? You?"

"I told her that the car was too conspicuous." "So you suggestedtaking it down to La Pierre enite that night." "Yes." Peter liedwithout knowing why he did so.

"Did anybody else know that the Baroness would not be driving?""Nobody." Except her bodyguards, the two chauffeurs who had met themon their return from Switzerland, Peter thought.

"All right, so we must accept that the Baroness was the target but wasit an assassination or an abduction attempt?

That could be significant. If it was assassination, it would indicatethat it was the elimination of a rival agent, that the Baroness wasprobably also a Mossad agent, recruited by her husband. On the otherhand, an abduction would suggest that the object was monetary gain.Which was it, Peter?"

"They had blocked the road-" he said, but not completely he remembered."And the police impersonator signalled me to stop-" or at least to slowdown, he thought, slow down sufficiently to make an easy target beforethey started shooting " and they did not open fire until I made itclear that I was not going to stop." But they had been ready to beginshooting at the instant Peter made the decision to send the Maseratithrough the roadblock. The intention of the two machine-gunners hadseemed evident.

I would say the object was to seize the Baroness alive."

"All right," Parker nodded. "We will have to accept that for the timebeing." He glanced at Colin. "Colonel Noble?

You had a question?"

"Thank you, Doctor. We haven't heard from Peter in "what terms he wasapproached by Narmco or the Baroness.

Who made the first contact?"

"I was approached by a London firm who specializes in A making topexecutive placements. They came directly from the Narmco Board-" And Iturned them down flat, he thought. It was only later at Abbots Yew'Isee." Colin frowned with disappointment. "There was no question of ameeting with the Baroness?"

"Not at that stage."

"You were offered the sales appointment no mention of any other duties,security, industrial intelligence "No, not then." later?"

"Yes. When I met the Baroness, I realized her personal securityarrangements were inadequate. I made changes."

"You never discussed her husband's murder?"

"Yes, we did "And?"

"And nothing." Peter was finding it difficult to improvise answers,but he used the old rule of telling as much of the truth as possible.

"There was no mention by the Baroness of a hunt for her husband'smurderers? You were not asked to use your special talents to lead avendetta?" Peter had to make a swift decision. Parker would know ofhis leak to the British military attache in Paris the bait he had socarefully placed to attract Caliph. Of course Parker would know: hewas head of Atlas with access to the Central Intelligence computer.Peter could not afford to deny it.

"Yes, she asked me to relay any information which might point to herhusband's murderers. I asked G.2 in Paris for any information he mighthave. He couldn't help me." Parker grunted. "Yes. I have a notethat G.2 filed a routine report but I suppose her request was naturalenough." He wandered back to his work table to glance at a pad onwhich was scribbled some sort of personal shorthand.

"We know of eight sexual liaisons that the Baroness formed prior to hermarriage, all with politically powerful or wealthy men. Six of themmarried men-" Peter found himself trembling with anger so intense thatit surprised him. He hated Parker for talking like this of Magda.

With a huge effort he kept his expression neutral, the hand in his lapwas relaxed and the fingers spread naturally, though he felt a drivingdesire to bunch it and drive it into Parker's face. all these affairswere conducted with utmost discretion. Then during her marriage thereis no evidence of any extra-marital activity.

Since the Baron's murder there have been three others, a minister inthe French Government, an American businessman head of the world'ssecond largest oil company-" He dropped the pad back on the desk andswung back to face Peter. "And recently there has been one other." Hestared at Peter with a bright penetrating gaze. "The lady certainlybelieves in mixing business with pleasure. All her partners have beenmen who are able to deliver very concrete proof of their affections. Ithink this rule probably applies to her latest choice of sexualpartner." Colin Noble coughed awkwardly, and shifted in his chair, butPeter did not even glance at him, he went on staring impassively atKingston Parker. He and Magda had made very little secret of theirrelationship still it was bitterly distasteful to have to discuss itwith anybody else.

"I think that you are in a position now to gather vital intelligence. Ithink that you are very near the centre of this nameless and formlessinfluence I think that you will be able to make some sort of contactwith the enemy, even if it is only another military brush with them.The only question is whether or not you find any reason, emotional orotherwise, that might prevent you fulfilling this duty?" KingstonParker cocked his head on one side, making the statement into aquestion.

"No," Kingston Parker agreed. "That is true. And I am sure that nowyou know a little more about Baroness Altmann you will appreciate justhow vital is our interest in that lady."

"Yes, I do." Peter had his anger under control completely.

"You want me to use a privileged relationship to spy on her.

Is that correct?"

"Just as we can be sure she is using the same relationship to her ownends-" Parker broke off as an odd thought seemed to occur. "I do hopeI have not been too blunt, Peter. I haven't destroyed some cherishedillusion." Now Parker's attitude was dismissive. The interview wasover.

"At my age, Doctor a man has no more illusions." Peter rose to hisfeet. "Do I report to you direct?"

"Colonel Noble will make the arrangements for all communications."Kingston Parker held out his hand. "I would not have asked this of youif I had a choice." Peter did not hesitate, but took the hand.Parker's hand was cool and dry. Although he made no show of it, Petercould sense the physical power in those hard pianist's fingers.

"I understand, sir," said Peter and he thought grimly, and even if thatis also a lie, I'm going to understand pretty damned soon.

Peter made the excuse of tiredness to avoid the gin rummy game, andpretended to sleep during most of the long trans-Atlantic flight. Withhis eyes closed he tried to marshal his thoughts into some sort ofpattern, but always they seemed to come around full circle and leavehim chasing his tail. He could not even achieve any about his feelingsand loyalties to Magda Altmann.

cer taint They seemed to keep changing shape every time he examinedthem, and he found himself brooding on irrelevancies.

"Sexual liaisons" what a ridiculously stilted expression Parker hadused, and why had it angered Peter so much?

Eight liaisons before marriage, six with married men, two others sincemarriage all wealthy or powerful. He found himself trying to flesh outthese bare statistics, and with a shock of bitter resentment imaginedthose faceless, formless figures with the slim smooth body, the tiny,perfectly shaped breasts, and the long smoky fall of shimmering hair.He felt somehow betrayed, and immediately scorned himself for thisadolescent reaction.

There were other more dire questions and chances that Kingston Parkerhad raised, the Mossad connection, the six missing years in Magda'slife and yet he came back again to what had happened between them. Wasshe capable of such skilful deception, or was it not deception? Was hemerely suffering from hurt pride now, or somehow unbeknown to him hadshe been able to force him into a more vulnerable position? Had shesucceeded in making him fall in love with her?

How did he feel about her? At last he had to face that questiondirectly and try to answer it, but when they landed again he still hadno answer, except that the prospect of seeing her again pleased himinordinately and the thought that she had deliberately used him to herown ends and was capable of discarding him as she had done those othersleft him with an aching sense of dismay. He dreaded the answer forwhich he had to search, and suddenly he remembered her suggestion of anisland to which they could escape together. He realized then that shewas a victim of the same dread, and with a clairvoyant shudder hewondered if they were somehow preordained to destroy each other.

There were three separate messages from her at the Dorchester. She hadleft the Rambouillet number, each time. He telephoned immediately hereached the suite.

"Oh, Peter. I was so worried. Where were you?" And it was hard tobelieve her concern was faked, and it was even harder to discount thepleasure when, the following noon, she met him at Charles de GaulleAirport herself instead of sending a chauffeur.

"I needed to get out of the office for an hour," she explained, andthen she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and pressedherself against him. "That's a lie, of course. I came because Icouldn't wait the extra hour to see you." Then she chuckled huskily."I am behaving shamelessly, I can't imagine what you must think of me!"They were with a party of eight that evening, dinner at Le Doyen andthen the theatre at the Palais de Chaillot.

Peter's French was still not up to Moli&e, so he took his pleasure insurreptitiously watching Magda, and for a few hours he succeeded insuppressing all those ugly questions; only on the midnight drive backto La Pierre Brute did he begin the next move in the complicatedgame.

"I couldn't tell you on the telephone-" he said in the intimatedarkness and warmth of her limousine. "I had an approach from Atlas.The head of Atlas summoned me to New York. That's where I was when youcalled. They are also onto Caliph." She sighed then, and her handstole into his. "I was waiting for you to tell me, Peter," she saidsimply, and she sighed again. "I knew you'd gone to America, and I hada terrible premonition that you were going to lie to me. I don't knowwhat I would have done then." And Peter felt a lance of consciencedriven up under his ribs, and with it the throb of concern she hadknown of his journey to New York, but how? Then he remembered hersources'.

"Tell me," she said, and he told her everything, except the naggingquestion marks which Kingston Parker had placed after her name.

The missing years, the Mossad connection with the Baron, and those tennameless men.

"They don't seem to know that Caliph uses that name," Peter told her."But they seem to be pretty certain that you are hunting him, andyou've hired me for that purpose." They discussed it quietly as thesmall cavalcade of cars rushed through the night, and later when shecame to his suite, they went on talking, holding each other as theywhispered in the night, and Peter was surprised that he could act sonaturally, that the doubts seemed to evaporate so easily when he waswith her.

"Kingston Parker still has me as a member of Atlas," Peter explained."And I did not deny it, nor protest. We want to find Caliph, and if Istill have status with Atlas it will be useful, of that I amcertain,"

"I agree. Atlas can help us especially now that they are also awarethat Caliph exists." They made love in the dawn, very deeplysatisfying love that left bodies and minds replete, and then keepingher discretion she slipped away before it was light, but they met againan hour later for breakfast together -in the Garden Room.

She poured coffee for him, and indicated the small parcel beside hisplate.

"We aren't quite as discreet as we think we are, She chuckled."Somebody seems to know where you are spending your evenings." Heweighed the parcel in his right palm; it was the size of a roll of 35men. film, wrapped in brown paper, sealed with red wax.

"Apparently it came special delivery yesterday evening." She broke oneof the crisp croissants into her plate, and smiled at him with thatspecial slant of her green eyes.

The address was typed on a stick-on label, and the stamps were British,franked in south London the previous morning.

Suddenly Peter was assailed with a terrifying sense of foreboding; thepresence of some immense overpowering evil seemed to pervade the gailyfurnished room.

"What is it, Peter?" Her voice cracked with alarm.

"Nothing,"he said. "It's nothing."

"You suddenly went deadly pale, Peter. Are you sure you are allright?"

"Yes. I'm all right." He used his table knife to lift the wax sealand then unrolled the brown paper.

It was a small screw-topped bottle of clear glass, and the liquid itcontained was clear also. Some sort of preservative, he realizedimmediately, spirits or formaldehyde.

Hanging suspended in the liquid was a soft white object.

"What is it?"Magda asked.

Peter felt cold tentacles of nausea closing around his stomach.

The object turned slowly, floating free in its bottle, and there was aflash of vivid scarlet.

"Does your mother allow you to wear nail varnish now, Melissa-Jane?" Heheard the question echoed in his memory, and saw his daughter flirt herhands, and the scarlet flash of her nails. The same vivid scarlet.

"Oh yes though not to school, of course. You keep forgetting I'malmost fourteen, Daddy." The floating white object was a human finger.It had been severed at the first joint, and the preservative hadbleached the exposed flesh a sickly white. The skin had puckered andwrinkled like that of a drowned man. Only the painted fingernail wasunaltered, pretty and festively gay.

The nausea caught Peter's throat, choking him and he coughed andretched drily as he stared at the tiny bottle.

The telephone rang three times before it was answered.

"Cynthia Barrow." Peter recognized his ex-wife's voice, even though itwas ragged with strain and grief.

"Cynthia, it's Peter."

"Oh, thank God, Peter. I have been trying to find you for two days."

"What is it?"

"Is Melissa-Jane with you, Peter?"

"No." He felt as though the earth had lurched under his feet.

"She's gone, Peter. She's been gone for two nights now.

I'm going out of my mind."

"Have you informed the police?"

"Yes, of course. "The edge of hysteria was in her voice.

"Stay where you are," Peter said. "I'm coming to England right now,but leave any message for me at the Dorchester." He hung up quickly,sensing that her grief would overflow at any moment and knowing that hecould not handle it now.

Across the ormolu Louis Quatorze desk Magda was pale, tense, and shedid not have to ask the question, it was in the eyes that seemed toolarge for her face.

He did not have to reply to that question. He nodded once, an abruptjerky motion, and then he dialled again and while he waited he couldnot take his eyes from the macabre trophy that stood in its bottle inthe centre of the desk.

"Colonel Noble." Peter snapped into the mouthpiece.

"Tell him it's General Stride and it's urgent."

Colin came on within a minute. ""They've taken Melissa-Jane."

"Who? I don't understand."

"The enemy. They've taken her."

"Jesus God! Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. They sent me her finger in a bottle." Colin wassilent for a few seconds, and then his voice was subdued. "That'ssick. Christ, that's really sick."

"Get onto the police. Use all your clout. They must be keeping quieton it. There has been no publicity.

I want to be in on the hunt for these animals. Get Thor involved, findout what you can. I'm on my way now. I'll let you know what flight Iam on."

"I'll keep a listening watch at this number round the clock, Colinpromised. "And I'll have a driver meet you." Colin hesitated. "Peter,I'm sorry. You know that."

"Yes. I know."

"We will all be with you, all the way." Peter dropped the receiveronto its arm, and across the desk Magda stood up resolutely.

"I'll come with you to London, she said, and Peter reached out and tookher hand.

"No," he said gently. "Thank you, but no. There will be nothing foryou to do."

"Peter, I want to be with you through this terrible thing.

I feel as though it's all my fault."

"That's not true."

"She's such a lovely child."

"You will be more help to me here, said Peter firmly.

"Try through all your sources, any little scrap of information." "Yes,very well." She accepted the decision, without further argument."Where can I find you if I have anything?" He gave her Colin Noble'sprivate number at Thor, scribbling it on the pad beside the telephone."Either there or at the Dorchester," he said.

"At least I will come with you as far as Paris," she said.

Heathrow Airport. It was on the front page of the Evening Standard andPeter snatched a copy off the news Stand and read it avidly during thedrive up to London.

The victim was abducted At the front gate of her home in Leaden Street,Cambridge at eleven o'clock on Thursday. A neighbour saw her speak tothe occupants of a maroon Triumph saloon car, and then enter the backdoor of the vehicle, which drove off immediately.

"I thought there were two people in the car," Mrs. Shirley Callon, 32,the neighbour, told our correspondent, and Melissa-Jane did not seemalarmed. She appeared to enter the Triumph quite willingly. I knowthat her father, who is a senior officer in the army, often sendsdifferent cars to fetch her or bring her home. So I thought nothingabout it." The alarm was not raised for nearly twenty-four hours, asthe missing girl's mother also believed that she might be with herex-husband.

Only when she was unable to contact Major -General Stride, the girl'sfather, did she inform the police. The Cambridge police found a maroonTriumph abandoned in the car park at Cambridge railway station. Thevehicle had been stolen in London the previous day, and immediately anation-wide alert was put in force for the missing girl.

Chief-Inspector-Alan Richards is the police officer in charge of theinvestigation and any person who may be able to provide informationshould telephone There followed a London number and a detaileddescription of Melissa-Jane and the clothes she was wearing at the timeshe disappeared.

Peter crumpled the newspaper and dropped it on the front seat. He satstaring ahead, cupping his anger to him like a flame, husbanding itcarefully because the heat was infinitely more bearable than the icydespair which waited to engulf him.

Inspector Alan Richards was a wiry little man, more like a jockey thana policeman. He had a prematurely wizened face, and he had combed longwisps of hair across his balding pate to disguise it. Yet his eyeswere quick and intelligent, and his manner direct and decisive.

He shook hands when Colin Noble introduced them. "I must make it veryclear that this is a police matter, General.

However, in these very special circumstances I am prepared to work veryclosely with the military." Swiftly Richards went over the ground hehad already covered. He had mounted the investigation from the twooffices set aside for him on the third floor of Scotland Yard, with aview over chimney pots of the spires of Westminster Abbey and theHouses of Parliament.

Richards had two young policewomen answering the telephone calls comingin through the number they had advertised in the Press and ontelevision. So far they had accepted over four hundred of these. "They range from long shots to the completely crazy, but we have toinvestigate all of them." For the first time his expression softened."It's going to be a long, slow process, General Stride, but we have afew more leads to follow come through." The inner office was furnishedin the same nondescript Public Works Department furniture, solid andcharacterless but there was a kettle boiling on the gas ring, andRichards poured the tea as he went on.

"Three of my men are taking the kidnap car to pieces.

We are sure it is the right car. Your ex-wife has identified a pursefound on the floor of the vehicle. It is your daughter's.

We have lifted over six hundred fingerprints, and these are now beingprocessed. It will take some time until we can isolate each and hopefor an identification of any alien prints.

However, two of these correspond to prints lifted from your daughter'sroom Sugar? Milk?" Richards brought the cup to Peter as he went on.

The neighbour, Mrs. Callon, who saw the pick-up, is working on anidentikit portrait of the driver, but she did not get a very good viewof him. That is a very long shot." Richards sipped his tea. "However,we will show the final picture on television and hope for another leadfrom it. I am afraid that in cases like this, this is all we can do. Wait for a tip, and wait for the contact from the kidnappers. We donot expect the contact will be made through your ex wife but of coursewe have a tap on her telephone and men watching over her." Richardsspread his hands. "That's it, General Stride. Now it's your turn. What can you tell us?

Why should anybody want to snatch your daughter?" Peter exchanged aglance with Colin Noble, and was silent as he collected his thoughts,but Inspector Richards insisted quietly: "I understand you are not avery wealthy man, General but your family? Your brother?" Peterdismissed the idea with a shake of his head. "My brother has childrenof his own. They would be the more logical targets."

"Vengeance? You were very active against the Provos in Ireland. Youcommanded the recapture of Flight 070."

"It's possible."

"You are no longer connected with the army, I understand." Peter wasnot going to be drawn further in that direction.

"I do not think this type of guesswork will profit us much.

We will know the motive as soon as the kidnappers make their demandsknown."

"That is true." Richards rattled his teacup, a little nervous gesture."They could not have sent you her" He broke off as he saw Peter'sexpression change.

It is horrible and terribly distressing, but we have to accept thefinger as proof that your daughter is still alive and that the contact,when it comes, will be made to you. It was an expression of theirearnest intention, and a threat but-" The telephone on his desk rangshrilly and Richards snatched it up.

"Richards!" he snapped, and then listened at length, occasionallygrunting encouragement to the caller. When he hung up the receiver hedid not speak immediately, but offered Peter a rumpled pack ofcigarettes. When Peter refused, the policeman lit one himself and hisvoice was diffident.

"That was the laboratory. You know your daughter was a white celldonor, don't you?" Peter nodded. It was part of Melissa-Jane's socialcommitment. If she had not been tactfully dissuaded, she would havedonated her blood and marrow by the bucketful.

"We were able to get a tissue typing from the Cambridge hospital. Theamputated finger matches your daughter's tissue type. I'm afraid wemust accept that it is hers I cannot imagine that the kidnappers wouldhave gone to the lengths of finding a substitute of the same type."Peter had been secretly cherishing the belief that it was a bluff. Thathe had been sent the fingertip from a corpse, from a medical sample,from the casualty ward of a city hospital and now as that hope died hewas assailed by the cold spirit-sapping waves of despair. They sat insilence for fully a minute, and now it was Colin Noble who broke it.

"Inspector, you are aware of the nature of the Thor Command?" "Yes, ofcourse. There was a great deal of publicity at the time of theJohannesburg hijacking. It is an anti-terrorist unit."

"We, are probably the most highly trained specialists in I'm sorry,General.

the world at removing hostages safely from the hands of militants--"

"I understand what you are trying to tell me, Colonel," Richardsmurmured drily. "But let us track down our militants first, and thenany rescue attempts will be entirely under the control of theCommissioner of Police." It was after three o'clock in the morningwhen Peter Stride checked in with the night receptionist at theDorchester Hotel in Park Lane.

"We have been holding your suite since midday, General."

"I'm sorry." Peter found himself slurring his words, exhaustion andnervous strain, he realized. He had only left Police Headquarters whenhe could convince himself that everything possible was being done, andthat he could place complete trust in Chief-Inspector Richards and histeam.

He had Richards's solemn undertaking that he would be informed, nomatter at-what time of day or night, as soon as there was any newdevelopment.

Now he signed the register, blinking at the gritty swollen feeling ofhis eyelids.

"There are these messages for you, General."

"Thank you again, and goodnight." In the elevator he glanced at themail the clerk had given him.

The first was a telephone slip.

"Baroness Altmann asks you to return her call to either the Paris orRambouillet number." The second was another telephone slip.

"Mrs. Cynthia Barrow called. Please call her at Cambridge 699 313."The third was a sealed envelope, good-quality white paper,undistinguished by crest or monogram.

His name had been printed in capitals, very regular Win lettering, anold-fashioned copper-plate script. No stamp, so it would have beendelivered by hand.

Peter split the flap with his thumb, and withdrew a single sheet oflined writing paper, again good but undistinguished.

There would be a stack of these sheets in any stationery departmentthroughout the United Kingdom.

The writing was the same regular, unnatural script, so that Peterrealized that the writer had used a stencil to form each letter, one ofthose clear plastic cut-out stencils obtainable from any toy store orstationery department. A completely effective method of disguisinghandwriting.

A finger you have already, next you will have the hand, then anotherhand, then a foot, then another foot and at last the head.

The next package will arrive on April 20th, and there will be anotherdelivery every seven days.

To prevent this you must deliver a life for a life. The day Dr.Kingston Parker dies, your daughter will return to you immediately,alive and suffering no further harm, Destroy this letter and tellnnobody, or the head will be delivered immediately.

The letter was signed with the name which had come to loom so largelyin Peter's life:

"CALIPH'

The shock of it seemed to reach to the extremities of his soul. To seethe name written. To have complete confirmation of all the evil thatthey had suspected, to see the mark of the beast deeply printed andunmistakable.

The shock was made greater, almost unbearable, by the contents of theletter. Peter found that such cruelty, such utter ruthlessness, testedhis credibility to its limits.

The letter was fluttering in his hands, and he realized with a start ofsurprise that he was shaking like a man in high fever. The portercarrying his black crocodile valise was staring at him curiously, andit required a huge physical effort to control his hands and fold thesheet of white paper.

He stood rigidly, as though on the parade ground, until the elevatordoor opened and then he marched stiffly down the passage to his suite.He gave the porter a banknote, without glancing at it, and the momentthe latch clicked closed, he unfolded the sheet again, and standing inthe centre of the living-room floor, scanned the stilted script again,and then again until the words seemed to melt together and losecoherence and meaning.

He realized that for the first time in his life he was in completepanic, that he had lost all resolution and direction.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, counting slowly to onehundred, emptying his mind completely, and then giving himself thecommand: "Think!" All right, Caliph knew his movements intimately.Even to when he was expected at the Dorchester. that? Cynthia, ColinNoble, Magda Altmann and the secretary at Rambouillet who had made thereservation, Colin's secretary at Thor, the Dorchester staff, andanybody else who had made even an idle study of Peter's movements wouldknow he always stayed at the Dorchester. That was a cul-de-sac.

"Think!" Today was April fourth. There were sixteen days beforeCaliph sent him Melissa-Jane's severed hand. He felt the panicmounting again, and he forced it back.

"Think!" Caliph had been watching him, studying him in detail,assessing his value. Peter's value was that he could move unsuspectedin high places. He could reach the head of Atlas by simply requestingan audience. More than that, he could probably get access to any headof state if he wanted it badly enough.

For the first time in his life Peter felt the need for liquor.

He crossed quickly to the cabinet and fumbled with the key. A

stranger's face stared at him out of the gilt-framed mirror above it.

The face was pale, haggard, with deep parentheses framing the mouth.

There were plum-coloured bruises of fatigue below the eyes, and thegaunt, bony jaw was gun-metal blue with a new beard and the sapphireblue of the eyes had a wild deranged glitter. He looked away from hisown image. It only increased his sense of unreality.

He poured half a tumbler of Scotch whisky, and drank half of itstraight off. He coughed at the sting of the liquor and a drop of itbroke from the corner of his mouth and trickled down his chin. Hewiped it away with his thumb, and turned back to study the sheet ofwhite paper again. It was crumpled already, where he had gripped ittoo hard. He smoothed it carefully.

"Think!" he told himself. This was how Caliph worked, then.

Never exposing himself. Picking his agents with incredible attentionto detail. Fanatics, like the girl, Ingrid who had led the taking of

Flight 070. Trained assassins, like the man he had killed in the riverat La Pierre Brute.

Experts in high places, like General Peter Stride. Studying them,

assessing them and their capabilities, and finally finding theirprice.

Peter had never believed the old law that every man had his price.

He had believed himself above that general rule.

Now he knew he was not and the knowledge sickened him.

Caliph had found his price, found it unerringly. Melissa-Jane.

Suddenly Peter had a vivid memory of his daughter on horseback,

swivelling in the saddle to laugh and call back to him.

"Super-Star!" And the sound of her laughter on the wind.

Peter shivered, and without realizing it he crumpled the sheet of paperto a ball in his fist.

Ahead of him he saw the road that he was destined to follow. With anew flash of insight, he realized that he had already taken his firststeps along the road. He had done so when he had put the gun to Ingridin the terminal. of Johannesburg Airport, when he had made himselfjudge and executioner.

Caliph had been responsible for that first step on the road tocorruption, and now it was Caliph who was driving him farther alongit.

With a sudden prophetic glimpse ahead, Peter knew it would not end withthe life of Kingston Parker. Once he was committed to Caliph, it wouldbe for ever or until one of them, Peter Stride, or Caliph, wascompletely destroyed.

Peter drank the rest of the whisky in the tumbler.

Yes, Melissa-Jane was his price. Caliph had made the correct bid.

Nothing else would have driven him to it.

Peter picked the booklet of matches off the liquor cabinet and like asleepwalker moved through to the bathroom. He twisted the sheet ofpaper into a taper and lit the end of it, holding it over the toiletbowl. He held it until the flame scorched his fingers painfully, thendropped it into the bowl and flushed the ash away.

He went back into the lounge, and refilled the glass with whisky.

He picked the comfortable armchair below the window and sank into it.

Only then did he realize how very weary he was. The nerves in histhighs quivered and twitched uncontrollably.

He thought about Kingston Parker. A man like that had an incalculableamount to offer mankind. It will have to look like an assassinationattempt aimed at me, Peter thought. One that finds the wrong victim.

"A bomb," Peter thought. He hated the bomb. Somehow it seemed to bethe symbol of the senseless violence which he hated. He had seen itused in Ireland and in London town, and he hated it. The undirecteddestruction, mindless, merciless.

"It will have to be a bomb," he decided, and with surprise he foundthat his hatred had found a new target. Again for the first time ever,he hated himself for what he was going to do.

Caliph had won. He knew that against an adversary of that calibrethere was no chance they would find where Melissa-Jane was hidden.

Caliph had won, and Peter Stride sat the rest of the night planning anact which he had dedicated his life, until then, to prevent.

cannot understand why we haven't had the demand A contact yet."

Inspector Richards ran his hand distractedly across his pate,

disturbing the feathery wisps that covered it and leaving them standingout at a startled angle.

"It's five days now. Still no demands."

"They know where to contact Peter," Colin Noble agreed.

"The interview he gave covered that." Peter Stride had appeared on

BBC TV to broadcast an appeal to the kidnappers not to maim hisdaughter further, and to the general public to offer any informationthat might lead to her rescue.

On the same programme they had displayed the police identikit portraitof the driver of the maroon Triumph prepared by the one witness.

The response had been overwhelming, jamming the switchboard at

Inspector Richards's special headquarters, and a mixed bag had falleninto the net.

A fourteen-year-old runaway had the police barge into the

Bournemouth apartment where she was in bed with her thirty-two-year-oldlover. She was returned weeping bitterly to the bosom of her family,

and had again disappeared within twenty-four hours.

In North Scotland the police sadly bungled a raid on a remote cottagehired by a man with the same lank dark hair and gunfighter's mustacheas the identikit portrait. He turned out to be a cottage-industrymanufacturer of LSD tablets, and he and his four assistants, one ofthem a young girl who vaguely fitted the description of Melissa-Jane inthat she was female and blonde, had scattered across the Highlandsbefore being overtaken and borne to earth by sweating pounding membersof the Scottish Constabulary.

Peter Stride was furious. "If it had been Melissa-Jane, they wouldhave had fifteen minutes in which to put her down-" He raged at

We'll put all our influence into it," Parker agreed, and then with deepcompassion in his eyes, "Peter, I'm living every minute of this withyou. I cannot escape the knowledge that I have placed you into thisterrible situation. I did not expect the attack would come throughyour daughter. I think you know that you can call on me for anysupport you need."

"Thank you, sir," said Peter and for a moment felt his resolve weaken.In ten days he would have to execute this man. He steeled himself bythinking of a puckered dead white finger floating in its tiny bottle.

Kingston Parker's influence worked immediately. Six hours later theorder came down from Downing Street via the Commissioner of Police,

that the next raid on a suspect hideout would be conducted by Thor

Command.

The Royal Air Force placed two helicopters at Thor's disposal for theduration of the operation, and Thor's assault unit went into intensivetraining for penetration and removal under urban conditions.

Peter trained with them, he and Colin swiftly re-establishing the oldrapport of concerted action.

When they were not practising and refining the exit and assembly fromthe hovering helicopters, Peter spent much of his time in the enclosedpistol range, trying to drown his awareness in the crash of gunfire,but the days passed swiftly in a series of false alarms and misleadingclues.

Each night when Peter examined his face in the mirror above the liquorcabinet, it was more haggard, the blue eyes muddied by fatigue andterrible gut eroding terror of what the next day might bring forth.

There were six days left when Peter left the hotel room beforebreakfast, caught the tube at Green Park and left it again atFinsbury

Park. In a garden supplies shop near the station he purchased atwenty-pound plastic bag of ammonium nitrate garden fertilizer. Hecarried it back to the Dorchester in a locked Samsonite suitcase andstored it in the closet behind his hanging trenchcoat.

That night, when he spoke to Magda Altmann, she pleaded once again tobe allowed to come to London.

"Peter I know I can be of help to you. Even if it's just to standbeside you and hold your hand."

"No. We've been over that." He could hear the brutal tone in his ownvoice, but could not control it. He knew that he was getting veryclose to the edge. "Have you heard anything?"

"I'm sorry, Peter. Nothing, absolutely nothing. My sources are doingall that is possible." Peter bought the dieseline from a pump at theLex Garage in Brewer Street. He took five lit res in a plasticscrew-topped container that had contained a household detergent. Thepump attendant was a pimply teenager in dirty overalls. He wascompletely uninterested in the transaction.

In his bathroom Peter worked on the dieseline and the nitrate from thegarden shop. He produced twenty-one pounds of savagelyweight-efficient high explosive that was, none the less, docile untilactivated by a blasting cap such as he had devised with a flashlightbulb.

It would completely devastate the entire suite, utterly destroyingeverybody and everything in it. However, the damage should be confinedto those three rooms.

It would be a simple matter to lure Kingston Parker to the suite underthe pretence of having urgent information about Caliph to deliver,information so critical that it could only be delivered in person andin private.

That night the face in the mirror above the liquor cabinet was that ofa man suffering from a devouring terminal disease, and the whiskybottle was empty. Peter broke the seal on a fresh bottle; it wouldmake it easier to sleep, he told himself.

The wind came off the Irish Sea like the blade of a harvester's scythe,and the low lead-coloured cloud fled up the slopes of the

Wicklow hills ahead of it.

There were weak patches in the cloud layer through which a cold andsickly sun beamed swiftly across the green forested slopes. As itpassed so the rain followed icy grey rain slanting in on the wind.

A man came up the deserted street of the village. The tourists had notyet begun the annual invasion, but the "Bed and Breakfast"

signs were already out to welcome them on the fronts of the cottages.

The man passed the pub, in its coat of shocking salmon pink paint andlifted his head to read the billboard above the empty car park.

"Black is Beautiful drink Guinness" it proclaimed, and the man did notsmile but lowered his head and trudged on over the bridge that dividedthe village in two.

On the stone balustrades of the bridge a midnight artist had used anaerosol paint can to spray political slogans in day-glo colours.

"BRITS OUT" on the left-hand balustrade and "STOP BLaCK TORTURE"

on the other. This time the man grimaced sourly.

Below him the steely grey water boiled about the stone piers beforehissing down towards the sea.

The man wore a cyclist's plastic cape and a narrow brimmed tweed cappulled down over his eyes. The wind dashed at him, flogging the skirtsof the cape against his Wellington boots.

He seemed to cringe to the wind, hunching down against its cold fury,as he trudged on past the few buildings of the village. The

Street was deserted, though the man knew that he was being watched fromcurtained windows.

This village on the lower slopes of the Wicklow hills, a mere thirtymiles from Dublin, would not have been his choice. Here isolationworked against them, making them conspicuous. He would have preferredthe anonymity of the city. However, his preferences had never beenasked for.

This was only the third time he had left the house since they hadarrived. Each time it had been for some emergency something that alittle more forethought might provision have prevented, which shouldhave been included when the old house was stocked for their stay. Thatcame from having to rely on a drinking man, but here again he had notbeen consulted.

He was discontented and in a truculent, smouldering mood. it hadrained most of the time, and the oil-fired central heating was notworking, the only heating was the smoking peat fires in the smallfireplaces in each of the two big rooms they were using. The highceilings and sparse furnishings had made the rooms more difficult towarm and he had been cold ever since they had arrived. They were usingonly the two rooms, and had left the rest of the house locked andshuttered. It was a gloomy building, with the smell of damp pervadingit. He had only the company of a whining alcoholic, day after coldrainy day. The man was ripe and over-ripe for trouble, for anydiversion to break the grinding monotony but now he was reduced toerrand boy and house servant, roles for which he was unsuited bytemperament and training, and he scowled darkly as he trudged over thebridge towards the village store, with its row of petrol pumps standingbefore it like sentries.

The storekeeper saw him coming, and called through into the back of theshop.

"It's himself from down at the Old Manse." His wife came through,

wiping her hands on her apron, a short plump woman with bright eyes andready tongue.

"City people have no more sense than they need, out in this weather."

"Sure and it's not baked beans nor Jameson whiskey he's afteTbuying."Speculation about the new occupant of the Old Manse had swiftly becomeone of the village's main diversions, with regular bulletins broadcastby the girl on the local telephone exchange two overseas telephonecalls, by the postman no mail deliveries, by the dustman the disposalsinto the dustbins were made up mainly of empty

Heinz baked beans cans and Jameson whiskey bottles.

"I still think he's from the trouble up north," said the shopkeeper'swife. "He's got the look and the sound of an Ulster man."

"Hush, woman." Her husband cautioned her. "You'll bring bad luck uponus. Get yourself back into the kitchen now." The man came in out ofthe rain and swept the tweed cap off his head, beating the water fromit against the jamb of the door. He had black straight hair, cut intoa ragged fringe above the dark Irish visage and fierce eyes, like thoseof a falcon when first the leather hood is slipped.

"The top of the morning to you, Mr. Barry," the shopkeeper greeted himheartily. "Like as not it will stop raining, before it clears."

The man they knew as Barry grunted, and as he slipped the waterproofcape from his shoulders, swept the cluttered interior of the littlegeneral dealer's store with a quick, all, embracing glance.

He wore a rough tweed jacket over a cable-stitched jersey and browncorduroys tucked into the top of the Wellington boots.

"You finished writing on your book, have you?" Barry had told themilkman that he was writing a book about Ireland.

The Wicklow hills were a stronghold of the literary profession,

there were a dozen prominent or eccentric writers living within twentymiles, taking advantage of Ireland's tax concessions to writers andartists.

"Not yet," Barry grunted, and went across to the shelves nearest thetill. He made a selection of half a dozen items and laid them on theworn counter top.

"When it's good and wrote I'm going to ask the library to keep a copyfor me," the shopkeeper promised, as though that was exactly what awriter would want to hear, and began to ring up the purchases on hisregister.

Barry's upper lip was still unnaturally smoother and paler than therest of his face. He had shaved away the dark droopy mustache the daybefore arriving in the village, and at the same time had cut the fringeof his hair that hung almost to his eyes.

The shopkeeper picked up one of the purchases and looked inquiringly atBarry, but when the dark Irish face remained impassive and hevolunteered no explanation, the shopkeeper dropped his eyesself-consciously and rang up the package with the other purchases anddropped it into a paper carrier.

"That will be three pounds twenty pence," he said, and closed the cashdrawer with a clang, waiting while Barry stung the cape over hisshoulders and adjusted the tweed cap.

"God be with you then, Mr. Barry." There was no reply and theshopkeeper watched him set off back across the bridge before he calledhis wife again.

"He's a surly one, all right, he is."

"He's got him a girlfriend down there." The shopkeeper was burstingwith the importance of his discovery. "He's up to a nice little bit ofhanky-panky."

"How do you know that?"

"He was after buying women's things you know." He hooded a knowingeye.

"No, I don't know, "his wife insisted.

"For the curse you know. Women's things," and his wife glowed with thenews, and began to untie her apron.

"You're sure now? "she demanded.

"Would I ever be lying to you?"

"I think I'll go across to Mollie for a cup pa tea," said his wifeeagerly; the news would make her the woman of the hour throughout thevillage.

The man they knew as Barry trudged into the narrow, high-walled lanethat led up to the Old Manse. It was only the heavy boots andvoluminous cape that gave him a clumsy gait, for he was a lithe, leanman in prime physical condition, and under the brim of his cap the eyeswere never still, hunter's eyes probing and darting from side toside.

The wall was twelve feet high, the stonework blotched with silver-greylichen, and although it was cracked and sagging at places,

yet it was still substantial and afforded complete privacy and securityto the property beyond.

At the end of the lane there was a pair of rotten and warping doubledoors, but the lock was a bright new brass Yale and the cracks in thewood and the gaping seams had been covered with fresh white strips ofpine so that it was impossible to see into the interior of thegarage.

There was a dark blue Austin saloon car parked facing the doors forimmediate departure. It had been stolen in Ulster two weeks before, resprayed and fitted with a roof rack to alter its appearance,

and with new licence plates.

The engine had been tuned and checked and Barry had paid nearly twiceits market value.

Now he slipped behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. Theengine fired and caught immediately. He grunted with satisfaction;seconds could mean the difference between success and failure, and inhis life failure and death were synonymous. He listened to the enginebeat for half a minute, checking the oil pressure and fuel gaugesbefore switching off the engine again and going out through the reardoor of the garage into the overgrown kitchen yard.

The old house had the sad unloved air of approaching dereliction.

The fruit trees in the tiny orchard were sick with fungus diseases andsurrounded by weed banks.

The thatch roof was rotten-green with moss, and the windows wereblindman's eyes, unseeing and uncaring.

Barry let himself in through the kitchen door and dropped his cape andcap on the scullery floor and set the carrier on the draining board ofthe sink. Then he reached into the cutlery drawer and brought out apistol. It was a British officer's service pistol, had in fact beentaken during a raid on a British Army arsenal in Ulster three yearspreviously.

Barry checked the handgun with the expertise of a long.

familiarity and then thrust it into his belt. He had felt naked andvulnerable for the short time that he was without the weapon but he hadreluctantly decided not to risk carrying it in the village.

Now he tapped water into the kettle, and at the sound a voice calledthrough from the dim interior.

"Is that you?"

"None other," Barry answered drily, and the other man came through andstood in the doorway to the kitchen.

He was a thin, stooped man in his fifties with the swollen inflamedface of the very heavy drinker.

"Did you get it?" His voice was husky and rough with whiskey, and hehad a seedy run-down air, a day's stubble of grey hairs that grew atangles on the blotchy skin.

Barry indicated the package on the sink.

"It's all there, doctor."

"Don't call me that, I'm not a doctor any more," the man snappedirritably.

"Oh, but you are a damned fine one. Ask the girls who dropped theirbundles-"

"Leave me alone, damn you." Yes, he had been a damn fine doctor. Longago, before the whiskey, now however it was the abortions and thegunshot wounds of fugitives, and jobs like this one.

He did not like to think about this one. He crossed to the sink andsorted through the packages.

"I asked you for adhesive tape, "he said.

"They had none. I brought the bandage."

"I cannot-" the man began, but Barry whirled on him savagely, his facedarkening with angry blood.

"I've had a gutsful of your whining. You should have brought what youneeded, not sent me to get it for you."

"I did not expect the wound-"

"You didn't expect anything but another dram of Jamesons, man.

There is no adhesive tape. Now get on with it and tie the bitch's handup with the bandage." The older man backed away swiftly, picked up thepackages and shuffled through into the other room.

Barry made the tea and poured it into the thick china mug, spooned infour spoons of sugar and stirred noisily, staring out of the smearedpanes. It was raining again. He thought that the rain and the waitingwould drive him mad.

The doctor came back into the kitchen, carrying a bundle of linensoiled with blood and the yellow ooze of sepsis.

"She is sick he said. "She needs drugs, antibiotics. The finger-"

"Forget it, "said Barry.

From the other room there was a long-drawn-out whimper, followed by theincoherent gabble of a young girl deep in the delirium induced by feverand hypnotic drugs.

"If she is not taken to proper care, I won't be responsible."

"You'll be responsible," Barry told him heavily. "I'll see to that."

The doctor dropped the bundle of linen into the sink and let the waterrun over it.

"Can I have a drink now?" he asked.

Barry made a sadistic display of consulting his watch.

"No. Not yet, "he decided.

The doctor poured soap flakes into the sink.

"I don't think I can do the hand," he whispered, shaking his head.

"The finger was bad enough but I can't do the hand."

"You'll do the hand" said Barry. "Do you hear me, you whiskey-guzzlingold wreck?

You'll do the hand, and anything else I tell you to do." Sir Steven

Stride offered a reward of fifty thousand pounds to anyone givinginformation that led to the recovery of his niece, and the offer waswidely reported on television and in the press with reprints of theidentikit portrait. It led to a revival of the flagging publicinterest in the case.

Inspector Richards had been able to reduce his telephone answeringstaff to one the last few days, but with the renewed spate of informersand speculators, he had to ask for the other policewoman to return tothe third floor, and he had two sergeants processing the material thatflowed in.

"I feel like Littlewoods," he growled to Peter. "Everybody taking aticket on the pools, or getting his three-pence worth of advertising."He picked up another message slip.

"Here is another claim for responsibility the Democratic

People's Party for the Liberation of Hong Kong Have we ever heard ofthem before?"

"No, sir." The senior sergeant looked up from his lists.

"But that makes one hundred and forty-eight confessions or claims forresponsibility so far."

"And "Enry the Eighth was on again half an hour ago." One of the girlsat the switchboard turned and smiled around her mouthpiece. "Hasn'tmissed a day."

"Enry the Eighth was a sixty-eight-year-old pensioner who lived in acouncil estate in South

London. His hobby was confessing to the latest spectacular crime fromrape to bank robbery, and he had called regularly every morning.

"Come and get me," he challenged each time. "But I warn you I

won't come peaceful like. -" When the local constable had made acourtesy call, while on his regular beat, "Enry the Eighth had hissuitcase packed and ready to go. His disappointment was heart-rendingwhen the bobby tactfully explained that they weren't going to arresthim, but when the bobby assured him that they would be keeping himunder close surveillance as the Commissioner considered him a verydangerous man,

he brightened up considerably and offered the constable a cup of tea.

"The trouble is we dare not dismiss any of it, even the real loonies,it all has to be checked out," Richards sighed, and motioned

Peter to go through to the inner office.

"Still nothing?" Richards asked. It was an unnecessary question.

They had a tap on his telephone, at the hotel and at ThorHeadquarters,

to record any contact from the kidnappers.

"No, nothing," Peter lied, but the lie had become easy now just as hehad learned to accept whatever else was necessary for

Melissa-Jane's release.

"I don't like it, General. I really don't like the fact that there hasbeen no attempt to contact you. I don't want to be despondent, butevery day of silence makes it look more like an act of vengeance, "Richards broke off and covered his embarrassment by lighting acigarette. "Yesterday the Deputy-Commissioner telephoned me. Hewanted my opinion as to how much longer I thought it necessary tomaintain this special unit."

"What did you tell him?" Peter asked.

"I told him that if we did not have some firm evidence within ten days,at least some sort of demand from the kidnappers then I would have tobelieve that your daughter was no longer alive."

"I see." Peter felt a fatalistic calm. He knew. He was the only onewho knew. There were four days to Caliph's deadline, he had worked outhis timetable.

Tomorrow morning he would request his urgent meeting with Kingston

Parker. He expected it would take less than twelve hours to arrangeit, he would make it too attractive for Parker to refuse.

Parker would have to come, but against the remote possibility that hedid not, Peter had left himself three clear days before the deadline inwhich to put into action his alternative plan. This would mean goingto Kingston Parker.

The first plan was the better, the more certain but if it failed, Peterwould accept any risk.

Now he realized that he had been standing in the centre of

Richards's office, staring vacantly at the wall above the littleinspector's head. He started as he realized that Richards was staringat him with a mingling of pity and concern.

"I am sorry, General. I understand how you feel but I cannot keep thisunit functioning indefinitely. We just do not have enough people-"

"I understand." Peter nodded jerkily, and wiped his face with an openhand. It was a weary, defeated gesture.

"General, I think you should see your doctor. I really do."

Richards's voice was surprisingly gentle.

"That won't be necessary I'm just a little tired."

"A man can take just so much."

"I think that's what these bastards are relying on," Peter agreed. "ButI'll be all right." From the next door office there was the almostconstant tinkle of telephone bells, and the murmur of female voices asthe two policewomen answered the incoming stream of calls. It hadbecome a steady background effect, so that when the call for which theyhad prayed and pleaded and waited finally came, neither of the two menwas aware of it, and there was no excitement on the switchboard. infront of The two girls sat side by side on swivel stools the temporaryswitchboard. The blonde girl was in her middle twenties, she waspretty and pert, with big round breasts buttoned primly under her blueuniform jacket. The blonde hair was twisted into a bun at the back ofher neck to free her ears, but the headset made her appear older andbusinesslike.

The bell pinged and a panel lit in front of her; she plugged in theswitch and spoke into the headset, "Good morning. This is the

Police Special Information Unit-" She had a pleasant middle-classaccent, but was unable to keep the trace of boredom out of it. She hadbeen on this job for twelve days now. There was the warning tone of apublic telephone and then the click of small change fed into theslot.

"Can you hear me?" The accent was foreign.

"Yes, sir."

"Listen carefully. Gilly O'Shaughnessy has hen" No,

it was an imitation, the foreign accept slipped a little with thepronunciation of the name.

"Gilly O'Shaughnessy,"the police girl repeated.

"That's right. He's holding her at Laragh."

"Spell that, please."

Again the accent slipped as the man spelled the name.

"And where is that, sir?"

"County Wicklow, Ireland."

"Thank you,

sir. What is your name, please?" There was the clack of a brokenconnection and the hum of the dialling tone. The girl shrugged, andscribbled the message on the pad before her, glancing at her wristwatchsimultaneously.

"Seven minutes to tea time," she said. "Roll on death, battle with theangels." She tore the sheet off the pad and passed it over hershoulder to the burly, curly-headed sergeant who sat behind her.

"I'll buy you a sticky bun, "he promised.

"I'm on a diet, "she sighed.

"That's daft, you look a treat-" The sergeant broke off.

Gil ly O'Shaughnessy. Why do I know that name?" The older sergeantlooked up sharply.

"Gilly O'Shaughnessy?" he demanded. "Let me see that." And hesnatched the sheet, scanning it swiftly, his lips moving as he read themessage. Then he looked up again.

"You know the name because you've seen it on the wanted posters,

and heard it on the telly. Gilly O'Shaughnessy, strew the man, he'sthe one who bombed the Red Lion at Leicester, and shot the ChiefConstable in Belfast." The curly-headed policeman whistled softly. "This looks like a hot one. A real hot one-" But his colleague wasalready barging into the inner office without the formality ofknocking.

Richards had the connection to the Dublin police within sevenminutes.

"Impress upon them that there must be no attempt-" Peter fretted,

while they waited, and Richards cut him short.

"All right, General. Leave this to me. I understand what has to bedone--2 At that moment the Dublin connection was made, and Richards wastransferred quickly to a Deputy, Commissioner. He spoke quietly andearnestly for nearly ten minutes before he replaced the receiver.

"They will use the local constabulary, not to waste time in sending aman down from Dublin. I have their promise that no approach will bemade if a suspect is located." Peter nodded his thanks.

"Laragh," he said. "I have never heard of it. It cannot have apopulation of more than a few hundred."

"I've sent for a map," Richards told him, and when it came they studiedit together.

"It's on the slopes of the Wicklow hills ten miles from the coast-" Andthat was about all there was to learn from the large-scale map.

"We'll just have to wait for the Dublin police to call back-"

"No," Peter shook his head. "I want you to call them again, and askthem to contact the surveyor-general. He must have trig maps of thevillage, aerial photographs, street layouts. Ask them to get them downwith a driver to Enniskerry Airfield-"

"Should we do that now? What if this turns out to be another falsealarm."

"We'll have wasted a gallon of petrol and the driver's time-" Peter wasno longer able to sit still, he jumped out of the chair and began topace restlessly about the office; it was too small for him suddenly, hefelt as though he were on the point of suffocation. "I don't think itis, however. I

and then stopped as a thought struck him. "The helicopters will haveto refuel, they haven't got the range to make it in one hop, and theyare so bloody slow!" He paused and reached a decision, then leanedacross Richards's desk to pick up the telephone and dialled Colin

Noble's private number at Thor.

"(2bun." He spoke curtly with the tension that gripped him like amailed fist. "We've just had a contact. It's still unconfirmed, butit looks the best yet."

"Where?" Colin broke in eagerly.

"Ireland."

"That's to hell and gone."

"Right, what's the flight time for the whirlybirds to reachEnniskerry?"

"Stand by." Peter heard him talking to somebody else probably one ofthe RAF. pilots. He came back within the minute.

Enniskerry. With this weather it will be dark before five." Peterthought furiously; if they sent the Thor team all the way to Ireland ona false trail and while they were there the correct contact was made inScotland, or Holland, or'It's got the smell. It's got to be right,"

he told himself, and took a deep breath. He could not order Colin

Noble to go to Bravo. Peter was no longer commander of Thor.

"Colin," he said. "I think this is it. I have the deep-down gut feelfor it. Will you trust me and go to Bravo now? If we wait evenanother half hour we'll not get Melissa-Jane out before nightfall ifshe is there."

its There was a long silence, broken only by Colin Noble's light quickbreath.

"Hell, it can only cost me my job," he said easily at last.

okay, Pete baby, it's Bravo, we'll be airborne in five minutes.

We'll pick you up from the helipad in fifteen minutes; be ready." Thecloud was breaking up, but the wind was still bitter and spiteful, andup on the exposed helipad it cut cruelly through Peter's trench coat,

blazer and roll-neck jersey. They looked out across the churnedsurface of the River Thames, eyes watering in the wind, for the firstglimpse of the helicopters.

"what if we have a confirmation before you reach Enniskerry?"

"You can reach us on the RAF. frequencies, through Biggin Hill," Petertold him.

"I hope I don't have bad news for you." Richards was holding hisbowler hat in place with one hand, the skirts of his jacket slappingaround his skinny rump and his face blotchy with the cold.

The two ungainly craft came clattering in, low over the rooftops,

hanging on the whirling silver coins of their rotors.

At a hundred feet Peter could plainly recognize the broad shape of

Colin Noble in the open doorway of the fuselage, just forward of thebrilliant RAF. rounders, and the down draught of the rotors boiled theair about them. "Good hunting." Richards raised his voice to a shout."I wish I

was coming with you." Peter ran forward lightly, and jumped before thehelicopter gear touched the concrete pad. Colin caught him by theupper arm and helped to swing him aboard without removing the cherootfrom his wide mouth.

"Welcome aboard, buddy. Now let's get this circus on the road. "Andhe hitched the big .45 pistol on his hip.

"She's not eating." The doctor came through from the inner room andscraped the plate into the rubbish bin below the sink. "I'm worriedabout her. Very worried." Gilly O'Shaughnessy grunted but did notlook up from his own plate. He broke a crust off the slice of breadand very carefully wiped up the last of the tomato ketchup. He poppedthe bread into his mouth and followed it with a gulp of steaming tea,and while he chewed it all together, he leaned back on the kitchenchair and watched the other man.

The doctor was on the verge of cracking up. He would probably not lastout the week before his nerve went completely; Gilly O'Shaughnessy hadseen better men go to pieces under less strain.

He realized then that his own nerves were wearing away.

It was more than just the rain and the waiting that was working on him.He had been the fox for all of his life, and he had developed theinstincts of the hunted animal. He could sense danger, the presence ofthe pursuers, even when there was no real evidence. It made himrestless to stay longer in one place than was necessary, especiallywhen he was on a job. He had been here twelve days, and it was far toolong. The more he thought about it the more uneasy he became. Why hadthey insisted he bring the brat to this isolated, and thereforeconspicuous, little dead-end? There was only one road in and out ofthe village, a single avenue of escape. Why had they insisted that hesit and wait it out in this one place? He would have liked to keepmoving. If he had had the running of it, he would have bought asecond-hand caravan, and kept rolling from one park to another hisattention wandered for a few moments as he thought how he would havedone it if he had been given the planning of it.

He lit a cigarette and gazed out of the rain-blurred window panes,

hardly aware of the muttered complaints and misgivings of hiscompanion. What they should have done was crop the brat's fingers andbottle all of them to send to her father at intervals, and then theyshould have held a pillow over her face and buried her in the vegetablegarden or weighted her and dumped her out beyond the hundred fathomline of the Irish Sea that way they would not have had to bother with adoctor, and the nursing Everything else had been done with professionalskill, starting with the contact they had made with him in the favelaof Rio de Janeiro, where he was hiding out in a sleazy one-room shackwith the half-caste Indian woman, and down to his last fifty quid.

That had given him a real start, he thought he had covered his trackscompletely, but they had him made.

They had the passport and travel papers in the name of Barry, and theydid not look like forgeries. They were good papers, he was sure of it,and he knew a lot about papers.

Everything else had been as well planned, and swiftly delivered.

The money a thousand pounds in Rio, another five thousand the day afterthey grabbed the brat, and he was confident that the final ten would bethere as it was promised. It was better than an English gaol,

the "Silver City" as the Brits called their concentration camp at the

Maze. That was what Caliph had promised, if he didn't take the job.

Caliph, now that was a daft name, Gilly O'Shaughnessy decided for thefiftieth time as he dropped the stub of his cigarette into the dregs ofhis teacup and it was extinguished with a sharp hiss. A real daftname, but somehow it had the ability to put a chill on the blood,

and he shivered not only from the cold.

He stood up and crossed to the kitchen window. It had all been donewith such speed and purpose and planning everything so clearly thoughtout, that when there was a lapse it was more troubling.

Gilly O'Shaughnessy had the feeling that Caliph did nothing withoutgood reason then why had they been ordered to back themselves into thisdangerously exposed bottleneck, without the security of multiple escaperoutes, and to sit here and wait?

He picked up the cyclist cape and tweed cap. "Where are you going?"the doctor demanded anxiously. "I'm going to take a shufti,"GillyO'Shaughnessy grunted as he pulled the cap down over his eyes.

"You're always prowling around," the doctor protested.

"You make me nervous." The dark Irishman pulled the pistol from underhis jacket and checked the load before thrusting it back into hisbelt.

"You just go on playing nursemaid," he said brusquely. "And leave theman's work to me." The small black Austin crawled slowly up thevillage street, and the rain hammered on the cab and bonnet in tinywhite explosions that blurred the outline, giving the machine a softlyfocused appearance, and the streaming windscreen effectively hid theoccupants.

It was only when the Austin parked directly in front of Laragh's onlygrocery store and both front doors opened that the curiosity ofwatchers from behind the curtained windows all down the street wassatisfied.

The two members of the Irish constabulary wore the service blue winteruniform with darker epaulettes. The soft rain speckled the patentleather peaks of their caps as they hurried into the shoP.

"Owen O'Neill, I do declare-" She chuckled as she recognized thesergeant there had been a time, thirty years before, when the two ofthem had given the priest some fine pickings at the confessional. "Andwhat brings you all the way up from the big city?" That was a generousdescription of the quaint seaside resort town of Wicklow, fifteen milesdown the road.

"The sight of your blooming smile-2 They chatted like old friends forten minutes, and her husband came through from the little storeroomwhen he heard the rattle of teacups.

"So what is new in Laragh, then?" the sergeant asked at last.

"Any new faces in the village?"

"No, all the same faces. Nothing changes in Laragh, bless the Lord forthat." The shopkeeper wagged his head. "No, indeed only new face isthe one down at the Old Manse, he and his lady friend-" he winkedknowingly but seeing as how he's a stranger, we aren't after countinghim." The sergeant ponderously delved for his notebook, opened it andextracted a photograph from it;

it was the usual side view and full face of police records. He heldthe name covered with his thumb as he showed it to them.

"No." The woman shook her head positively. "Himself down at the manseis ten years older than that, and he does not have a mustache."

"This was taken ten years ago," said the sergeant.

"Oh, well, why didn't you say so." She nodded. "Then that's him.

That's Mr. Barry for certain sure."

"The Old Manse, you say." The sergeant seemed to inflate visibly withimportance, as he put the photograph back into his notebook. "I'mgoing to have to use your telephone now, dear."

"Where will you be after telephoning?" The shopkeeper askedsuspiciously.

"Dublin," the sergeant told him. "It's police business."

"I'll have to charge you for the call," the shopkeeper warned himquickly.

"There," said the wife as they watched the sergeant making his requestto the girl on the village switchboard. "I told you he had the look oftrouble, didn't I? The first time I laid eyes on him I knew he wasfrom up in the North, and carrying trouble like the black angel."

Gilly O'Shaughnessy kept close in under the stone wall, keeping out ofthe slanting rain and out of the line of sight of a casual watcher onthe slope beyond the river. He moved carefully and quietly as a tomcaton his midnight business, stopping to examine the earth below theweakened or tumbled places in the wall where a man could have comeover, studying the wet drooping weeds for the brush marks where a manmight have passed.

At the farthest corner of the garden, he stepped up onto the leaningmain stem of an apple tree to see over the wall, wedging himselfagainst the lichen-encrusted stone, so that the silhouette of his headdid not show above the wall.

He waited and watched for twenty minutes, with the absolute animalpatience of the predator, then he jumped down and went on around theperimeter of the wall, never for a moment relaxing his vigilance,

seemingly oblivious to the discomfort of the cold and the insistentrain.

There was nothing, not the least sign of danger, no reason for thenagging disquiet but still it was there. He reached another vantagepoint, the iron gate that led into the narrow walled alley, and heleaned against the stone jamb, cupping his hands to protect match andcigarette from the wind, and then shifting slightly so he could seethrough the crack between wall and gate and cover the walled lane, andthe road beyond as far as the bridge.

Once again he assumed the patient watching role, closing his mindagainst the physical discomfort and letting his eyes and his brain workat their full capacity.

Not for the first time he pondered the unusual system of signals andexchanges of material that Caliph had insisted upon.

The payments had been made by bearer deposit certificates, in

Swiss francs, sent through the post to his Rio address and then to hiscollection address in London.

He had made one delivery to Caliph, the bottle and its contents and twotelephone calls. The delivery had been made within two hours ofgrabbing the girl, while she was still under the effects of the initialshot of the drug. The doctor Dr. Jameson, as Gilly

O'Shaughnessy liked to think of him had done the job in the back of thesecond car. It had been waiting in the car park at Cambridge railwaystation, a little green Ford delivery van with a completely enclosedrear compartment. They had moved the girl from the maroon

Triumph to the Ford in the covering dusk of the autumn evening, andthey had parked again in the lot of a roadside cafe on the A10 whileDr.

Jameson did the job.

All the instruments had been ready for him in the van, but he hadbotched it badly, his hands shaking with nerves and the need forliquor. The brat had bled copiously, and now the hand wasinfected.Gilly O'Shaughnessy felt his irritation rising sharply when hethought of the doctor. Everything he touched seemed to turn todisaster.

He had delivered the bottle to a pick-up car that had been exactlywhere he was told it would be, and it had dipped its headlights in theprearranged signal. Gilly had hardly stopped, but merely drawn upalongside and handed the bottle across, then driven straight into the

West, and caught "4

the early morning ferry long before any general alarm was out for thegirl.

Then there were the telephone calls. They worried Gilly

O'Shaughnessy as much as anything else in this whole bloody business.

He had made the first call immediately they reached Laragh. It was aninternational call, and he had to say one sentence: "We arrivedsafely." And then hang up. A week later a call to the same number,and again only one sentence: "We are enjoying ourselves." And thenimmediately break the connection.

Gilly remembered how each time the girl on the local exchange hadcalled him back to ask if the contact had been satisfactory and eachtime she had sounded puzzled and intrigued.

It was not the way Caliph had worked up until then, it was leaving atrail for the hunters to follow and he would have protested if therehad been somebody to protest to, but there was only the internationaltelephone number, no other way of contacting Caliph. He decided as hestood by the gate that he would not make the next telephone call tothat number which was due in four days" time.

Then he remembered that was the day the hand was due and he wouldprobably receive his orders for delivery of the hand when he made thecall but he didn't like it. Not even for the money and suddenly hismind went back to an incident long ago.

They had wanted to pass false information to the English, details of anintended operation which would in fact take place at a different placeand a different time.

They had fed the detailed but duff information to a young unreliableProvo, one who they knew would not hold out under interrogation, andthey had put him in a safe house in the Shankhill

Road and that was where the English took him.

Gilly O'Shaughnessy felt a little electric prickle run down his spinelike ghost-fire, and that feeling had never let him down before never.He looked at his cheap Japanese wristwatch; it was almost four o'clock,and evening was lowering on the hills of grey and cold green.

When he looked up again, there was movement on the road.

From the top of the hill a vehicle was following the curve of the road,down towards the bridge. It was a small black saloon car, and it wentout of sight behind the hedge.

Gilly O'Shaughnessy watched for it to reappear without particularinterest, still worrying about those two telephone calls. Trying tofind the need for them, why Caliph should want to take that chance.

The small black car turned onto the bridge, and came directly downtowards the Manse, but the light was wrong and Gilly could make outonly the shape of two heads beyond the rhythmically flogging windscreenwipers.

The car began to slow up, coming down almost to walking speed, and

Gilly straightened up instinctively, suddenly completely alert as hepeered through the slit.

There was the pale blur of faces turned towards him, and the car slowedalmost to a halt. The nearest side window was lowered slowly and forthe first time he could see clearly into the interior. He saw the peakof the uniform cap, and the silver flash of a cap badge above thestraining white face. The ghost-fire flared up Gilly

O'Shaughnessy's spine and he felt his breath suddenly scalding histhroat.

The small black car disappeared beyond the corner of the stone wall,and he heard it accelerate away swiftly.

Gilly O'Shaughnessy whirled with the cape ballooning around him and heran back to the house. He felt very cold and sure and calm now thatthe moment of action had come.

The kitchen was empty and he crossed it in half a dozen strides,

and threw open the door to the second room.

The doctor was working over the bed and he looked up angrily.

"I've told you to knock." They had argued this out before. The doctorstill retained some bizarre vestige of professional ethics in histreatment of his patient. He might surgically mutilate the child forthe money he so desperately needed, but he had protested fiercely whenGilly O'Shaughnessy had lingered at the doorway to ogle the maturingbody whenever the doctor stripped it for cleansing, treatment or forthe performance of its natural functions.

The dark Irishman had halfheartedly attempted to force him to backdown, but when he had encountered surprisingly courageous opposition hehad abandoned his voyeuristic pleasures and had returned to the innerroom only when called to assist.

Now the child lay face down on the soiled sheets. Her blonde hair wasmatted and snarled into greasy tresses; the doctor's attempts atcleanliness were as bumbling and gin ineffectual as his surgery.

The infection and the use of drugs had wasted the flesh off the tenderyoung body, each knuckle of her spine stood out clearly and her nakedbuttocks seemed pathetically vulnerable, shrunken and pale.

Now the doctor pulled the grubby sheet up to her shoulders, and turnedto stand protectively over her. It was an absurd gesture, when youlooked at the untidy, stained dressing that bound up her left hand andGilly O'Shaughnessy snarled at him fiercely.

"We are getting out."

"You can't move her now, protested the doctor. "She's really sick."

"Suit yourself," Gilly agreed grimly.

"Then we'll leave her." He reached under the dripping cape, andbrought out the pistol. He thumbed back the hammer and stepped up tothe bed.

The doctor grabbed at his arm, but Gilly pushed him away easily,

sending him reeling back against the wall.

"You are right, she'll be a nuisance," he said, and placed the muzzleof the pistol against the base of the child's skull.

"No," shrieked the doctor. "No, don't do that. We'll take her."

"We are leaving as soon as it's dark." Gilly stepped back and uncockedthe pistol. "Be ready by then, "he warned.

The two helicopters flew almost side by side, with the number two onlyslightly behind and higher than the leader; below them the Irish

Sea was a sheet of beaten lead flecked with feathers of white water.

They had refuelled at Caemarvon and had made good time since leavingthe Welsh coast, for the wind drove them on, but still the night wasovertaking them and Peter Stride fretted, glancing at his wristwatchevery few seconds.

It was only ninety miles of open water to cross, but to Peter it seemedlike the entire Atlantic. Colin slumped beside him on the bench thatran the length of the hold, with the cold stump of a cheroot in thecorner of his mouth in deference to the "No smoking" light that burnedon the bulkhead behind the flight deck. The rest of the Thor team hadadopted their usual attitudes of complete relaxation, some of themsprawled on the deck using their equipment as pillows, the othersstretched out full length on the benches.

Peter Stride was the only one tensed up, as though his blood fizzedwith nervous energy. He stood up once again to peer through theperspex window, checking the amount of daylight and trying to judge theheight and position of the sun through the thick cloud cover.

"Take it easy, Colin counselled him as he dropped back into his seat."You will give yourself an ulcer."

"Colin, we've got to decide.

What are our priorities on this strike?" He had to shout above theracket of wind and motor.

"There are no priorities. We have only one object to get

Melissa-Jane out, and out safety."

"We aren't going to try for prisoners to interrogates"

"Peter baby, we are going to hit anything and everything that moves inthe target area, and we are going to hit them hard." Peter nodded withsatisfaction. "They will only be goons anyway, you can be certain thattheir paymaster will not let them connect to him but what aboutKingston Parker, he would want prisoners?"

"Kingston Parker?" Colin removed the stub of cheroot from his mouth."Never heard of him around here it's Uncle Colin makes the decisions."And he grinned at Peter, that friendly lopsided grin,

and at that moment the flight engineer crossed the cabin and yelledat

Colin.

"Irish coast ahead we'll be landing at Enniskerry in seven minutes,sir." The traffic control at Enniskerry had been apprised of theemergency. They stacked the other traffic in holding pattern abovecircuit altitude and cleared the two RAF. helicopters for immediatelanding.

They came clattering out of the low grey cloud and rain, and settled onthe hangar apron. Immediately a police car with headlights burning inthe gloom, sped out from between the hangars and parked beside theleading machine. Before the rotors had stopped turning, two members ofthe Irish Constabulary and a representative of the surveyor general'soffice were scrambling up into the camouflaged fuselage.

"Stride." Peter introduced himself quickly. He was dressed now in

Thor assault gear, the one piece fitted black suit and soft boots, thepistol on its webbing belt strapped down to his right thigh.

"General, we've had a confirmation," the police inspector Aware toldhim while they were still shaking hands. "Local people have identifiedO'Shaughnessy from a police photograph.

He is staying in the area all right."

"Have they found where?"

Peter demanded.

"They have, sir. It's an old rambling building on the edge of thevillage-" He motioned the bespectacled surveyor to come forward withthe file he was clutching to his chest.

There was no chart table in the stripped-out hull of the helicopter,and they spread the survey map and photographs on the deck.

Colin Noble ordered across the team from the second helicopter,

and twenty men crowded into a huddle about the maps. "There, that'sthe building." The surveyor placed a circle on the map with a bluepencil.

"Right," grunted Colin. "We've got good fixes we pick up either theriver or the road and follow it to the bridge and the church. Thetarget is between them."

"Haven't we got a blow-up of the building, a plan of the interior?" oneof the Thor team asked.

"Sorry, there wasn't time to do a proper search," the surveyorapologized.

"The local police reported again a few minutes ago, and we got a relayon the radio. They say the house is enclosed by a high stone wall andthat there are no signs of activity."

"They haven't been near it?" Peter demanded. "They were strictlyordered not to approach the suspects."

"They drove past once on the public road. "The inspector lookedslightly abashed. "They wanted to make certain that-"

"If it's

O'Shaughnessy, he needs only one sniff and he'll be gone " Peter'sexpression was stony, but his eyes sparkled blue with anger. " Whycan't these people do what they are told?" He turned quickly to thehelicopter pilot in his yellow life jacket and helmet with its built-inmicrophone and earphones.

"Can you get us in?" The pilot did not answer immediately but glancedup at the nearest window; a fresh gout of rain splashed against thepane.

"It will be dark in ten minutes, or even earlier, and the ceiling isdown to the deck now, we only got down here using the airport VOR.

beacons- He looked dubious.

" There is nobody aboard who will recognize the target, hell I

don't know I could get you in at first light tomorrow."

"It has to be tonight, now. Right now."

"If you could get the local police to mark the target-" the pilotsuggested, with torches or a flare."

"There is no chance of that we have to go in cold, and the longer wesit here talking the less our chances. Will you give it your bestshot?"

Peter was almost pleading, the go decision is one that cannot be forcedon a pilot, even air traffic control cannot force a pilot-in command tooperate beyond his personal judgement.

"We will have to try and keep ground contact all the way; it's classicconditions for trouble, rising terrain and deteriorating weather-"

"Try it." Peter said, please The pilot hesitated five secondslonger.

"Let's go!" he said abruptly, and there was a concerted rush for thehatchway as the second Thor team made for the other machine, and thepolice and surveyor made certain they were not included on thepassenger list.

Turbulence slogged the helicopter like the punches of a heavyweightprize fighter, and she dipped and staggered to them with a nauseatinglygiddy action.

The ground flickered past under them, very close, and yet darklyinsubstantial in the wild night. The headlights of a solitary vehicleon a lonely country road, the cluttered lights of a village, each adistinct yellow rectangle they were so close, these were the onlylandmarks with any meaning the rest was dark patches of woods, thethreads of hedges and stone walls drawn lightly across sombre fields,and every few minutes even that was gone as a fresh squall of greyclouds and rain washed away all vision, and the pilot concentrated allhis attention on the dull glow of the flight instruments arranged intheir distinctive T layout in front of him.

Each time they emerged from cloud, the light seemed to have diminishedand the dark menace of earth loomed more threateningly as they wereforced lower and lower to keep contact.

Peter was squeezed into the jump seat of the helicopter's flight deck,between the two pilots, and Colin crowded in behind him, all of thempeering ahead, all silent and tense as the ungainly machines lumberedlow and heavy over the earth, groping for the shoreline.

They hit the coast, the ghostly white line of surf flared withphosphorescence only fifty feet below them, and the pilot swung them torun south with it and seconds later another brighter field of lightsappeared below them.

"Wicklow," said the pilot, and his co-pilot called the new heading; nowthey had made a fix they could head for Laragh directly.

They swung onto the new heading, following the road inland.

"Four minutes to -target," the co-pilot shouted at Peter, stabbingahead with his finger, and Peter did not try to answer in the clatterand roar of the rotors, but he reached down and checked the Walther inits quick-release holster; it came out cleanly in his fist.

Gilly O'Shaughnessy threw his few personal possessions into the bluecanvas airways grip, a change of underclothing and his shaving gear.Then he pulled the iron bedstead away from the wall, ripped back theskirting board and cleared out the hiding-place he had made there byremoving a single brick.

There were the new papers and passports. Caliph had even providedpapers for the brat Helen Barry his daughter. Caliph had thought ofeverything. With the papers was six hundred pounds sterling intravellers" cheques, and a package of spare ammunition for thepistol.

He thrust these into the pocket of his jacket, and took one last lookaround the bare bleak room. He knew that he had left nothing to leadthe hunters, because he never carried anything that could be used toidentify him. Yet he was obsessed by the need to destroy all sign ofhis passing. He had long ago ceased to think of himself by the nameof

Gilly O'Shaughnessy. He had no name, and only one purpose that purposewas destruction.

The magnificent passion to reduce all life to decay andmortification.

He could recite by heart most of Bakunin's The Revolutionary

Catechism, especially the definition of the true revolutionary: Thelost man, who has no belongings, no outside interest, no personal tiesof any sort not even a name.

Possessed of but one thought, interest and passion the revolution. Aman who has broken with society, broken with its laws and conventions.He must despise the opinions of others, and be prepared for death andtorture at any time. Hard towards himself, The

MUSt. be hard to others, and in his heart there must be no place forlove, friendship, gratitude or even honour.

As he stood now in the empty room, he saw himself in a rare moment ofrevelation, as the man he had set out to become the true revolutionary,and his head turned for a moment to indulge in the vanity of regardinghis own image in the mirror screwed to the peeling wallpaper above theiron bedstead.

It was the dark cold face of the lost man, and he felt proud to belongto that elite class, the cutting edge of the sword, that was what hewas.

He picked up the canvas grip, and strode through into the kitchen.

"Are you ready? "he called.

"Help me." He dropped the grip and stepped to the window. The last ofthe light was fading swiftly, glowing pink and mother of-pearl withinthe drooping, pregnant belly of the sky. It seemed so close he couldreach out and touch it. Already the trees of the unkempt orchard weremelding into the darkness as the night encroached.

"I cannot carry her on my own," the doctor whined, and he swung awayfrom the window. It was time to go again.

In his life there was always the moving onwards, and always the huntersbaying hard upon his scent. It was time to run again, run like thefox.

He went through into the second room. The doctor had the child wrappedin a grey woollen blanket, and he had tried to lift her from the bed,but had failed. She was sprawled awkwardly, half onto the floor.

"Help me," repeated the doctor.

"Get out of the way." Gilly O'Shaughnessy pushed him roughly aside,and stooped over the girl. For a second their faces were within inchesof each other.

Her eyes were opened, half conscious, although the pupils were widelydilated by the drug. The lids were pink rimmed and there were littlebutter-yellow lumps of mucus in the corners. Her lips were dried towhite scales, and cracked through to the raw flesh at three places.

"Please tell my daddy," she whispered. "Please tell him I'm here." Hisnostrils flared at the sick sour smell of her body, but he picked herup easily with an arm under her knees and the other under hershoulders, and carried her out across the kitchen, kicking open thedoor so the lock burst and it slammed back against its hinges.

Quickly he carried her across the yard to the garage, with the doctorstaggering along after them carrying a carton of medical supplies andequipment against his chest, cursing miserably at the cold, and slidingand slipping in the treacherous footing.

Gilly O'Shaughnessy waited while the doctor opened the rear door of thecar, and then he bundled her in so roughly that the child cried outweakly. He ignored her and went to the double garage doors and draggedthem open. It was so dark now that he could not see as far as thebridge.

"Where are we going? "bleated the doctor.

"I haven't decided yet," Gilly told him brusquely. "There is a safehouse up North, or we might go back across the sea to England-" Hethought of the caravan again, that was a good one, But why are weleaving now, so suddenly?" He did not bother to reply but left thegarage and ran back into the kitchen. Always he was obsessed by theneed to cover his tracks, to leave no sign for the hunters.

Though he had brought little with him, and was taking that now,

yet he knew the old house contained signs, even if it was only hisfingerprints. There was also the single remaining appetite fordestruction to assuage.

He ripped the wooden doors off the kitchen cupboards and smashed themto splinters under his heel, piled them in the centre of the woodfloor. He crumpled the newspapers piled on the table and added them tothe pile, threw the table and chairs upon it.

He lit a match and held it to the crumpled newsprint. It flaredreadily, and he straightened and opened the windows and doors. Theflames fed on the cold fresh air and climbed greedily, catching on thesplintered doors.

Gilly O'Shaughnessy picked up the canvas grip and stepped out into thenight, crouching to the wind and the rain but halfway to the garage hestraightened again abruptly and paused to listen.

There was a sound on the wind, from the direction of the coast.

It might have been the engine note of a heavy truck coming up thehills, but there was a peculiar thin whistling sound mingled with theengine beat, and the volume of sound escalated too sharply to be thatof a lumbering truck. It was coming on too swiftly, the sound seemedto fill the air, to emanate from the very clouds themselves.

Gilly O'Shaughnessy stood with his face lifted to the fine silverdrizzle, searching the belly of the clouds, until a throbbing regularglow began to beat like a pulse in the sky, and it was a moment untilhe recognized it as the beacon light of a low-flying aircraft, and atthe same moment he knew that the shrill whistle was the whirling ofrotors bringing the hunters.

He cried aloud in the certainty of betrayal and onrushing death.

"Why? God, why?" He called to the god he had so long ago denied, andhe began to run.

It's no good." The pilot twisted his neck to shout at Peter withouttaking his eyes from the flight instruments which kept the greatungainly machine level and on course. They had lost contact with theother machine.

"We are socked in, blind." The cloud frothed over the canopy likeboiling milk over the lip of the pot. "I'm going to have to climbout,

and head back for Enniskerry before we run into my number two." Therisk of collision with the other helicopter was now real andimminent.

The beacon light throbbed above them, reflected off the impenetrablepress of soft cloud but the other pilot would not see it until toolate.

"Hold on. Just another minute," Peter shouted back at him, hisexpression tortured in the glow of the instrument panel. The entireoperation was disintegrating about him, would soon end in tragedy or infiasco, but he must go on.

"It's no good-" the pilot began, and then shouted with fright andhurled the helicopter over onto its side, at the same instant alteringpitch and altitude so the machine shuddered and lurched as though shehad run into a solid obstruction, and then bounded upwards, gaining ahundred feet in a swoop.

The spire of a church had leapt at them out of the cloud, like apredator from ambush, and now it flickered by only feet from where theycrouched in the flight deck, but it had disappeared again instantly asthey roared past.

"The church!" Peter yelled. "That's it! Turn back." The pilotchecked the machine, hovering blindly in the chaos of rain and cloudchurned to a fury by the down draught of their own rotor.

"I can't see a damned thing, "shouted the pilot.

"We've got one hundred and seventy feet on the radio altimeter,"

his co-pilot called; that was actual height from the ground and stillthey could see nothing below them.

"Get us down. For God's sake, get us down," Peter pleaded.

"I can't take the chance. We don't have any idea of what is under us."The pilot's face was sickly orange in the instrument glow, his eyes thedark pits of a skull. "I'm climbing out and heading back-"

Peter reached down and the butt of the Walther jumped into his hand,

like a living thing. He realized coldly that he was capable of killingthe pilot, to force the co-pilot to land but at the moment there was ahole in the cloud, just enough to make out the dark loom of the earthbelow them.

"Visual," Peter shouted. "We've visual, get us down!" And thehelicopter sank swiftly, breaking out suddenly into the clear.

The thatched roof was a black oblong, and light spilled from thewindows of one side of the building, so they could see the highenclosing wall. The pilot spun the helicopter on its axis like acompass needle, and dived towards the building.

Colin Noble scrambled down into the cabin, shouting to his team.

"Delta! We are going to Delta-" And the flight engineer slid the hatchcover open. Immediately a fine swirling mist filled the cabin as thedown-draught of the rotors churned the rain filled air.

The Thor team were on their feet, forming up on each side of the openhatch, while Colin towered over the flight engineer as he took leadposition "point" as he always called it.

The dark earth rushed up to meet them, and Colin spat out the cherootstub and braced himself in the doorway.

"Hit anything that moves," he yelled. "But for Chrissake watch out forthe kid. Let's go, gang. Let's go!" Peter was jammed into the jumpseat by the swooping drop of the machine, unable to follow,

wasting precious seconds but he had a clear view ahead through thecanopy.

The light in the windows of the building wavered unnaturally, and

Peter realized that it was burning. Those were flames, and his concernwas heightened by the knowledge, but he did not have a chance to ponderthis new development. In the shadows of the walled yard he sawmovement, just the dark blur of it in the glow of the flames, and whatwas left of the daylight but it was the shape of a man, running,

crouched low, disappearing almost immediately into one of theoutbuildings that flanked the narrow stone walled lane.

Peter dragged himself out of the seat against the G force,

scrambling awkwardly down into the cabin as the helicopter dropped thelast few feet, and then hung, swaying slightly, suspended ten feetabove the open yard at the rear of the house and black-clad figuresspilled out of her, dropping lightly onto their feet and racing forwardas they touched ground, seeming to disappear again miraculously throughthe doors and windows of the building. Even in the grinding tension ofthe moment Peter felt the flare of pride in the way it was done,

instant and seemingly effortless penetration, the lead man using thesandbags to break in glass and wooden shutters and the man behind himgoing in with a clean controlled dive.

Peter was the last man left aboard, and something made him check in theopen hatchway before jumping. Perhaps it was that glimpse of movementoutside the main building that he had been given; he looked back thatway, and suddenly lights leapt in solid white lances down the walledlane the headlights of a motor vehicle, and at the same moment thevehicle launched itself from the dark derelict outbuilding and rocketedaway down the lane.

Peter teetered in the open hatch, for he had been in the very act ofjumping, but he caught his balance now, grabbing wildly at the nylonline above the door. The vehicle slowed for the turn into the mainroad at the bridge and Peter caught the flight engineer and shook hisshoulder violently, pointing after the escaping vehicle. His lips wereinches from the man's face.

"Don't let it get away!" he screamed, and the flight engineer wasquick and alert; he spoke urgently into his microphone, directly to thepilot in the flight deck above them, and obediently the helicopterswung around and the beat of the engines changed as the rotors alteredpitch and roared in forward thrust the machine lunged forward,

skimming the garage roof by mere feet and then hammered out into thenight in pursuit of the dwindling glow of headlights.

Peter had to hang out of the hatchway to see ahead, and the windclamoured around his head and tore at his body, but they were swiftlyoverhauling the vehicle as it raced down the twisting narrow roadtowards the coast.

It was two hundred yards ahead, and the dark tree tops seemed to rushby at the same level as the hatch in which Peter stood. A hundredyards ahead now, the headlights blazing through the drivel of rain,

They were close enough now for Peter to make out that it was a smallishvehicle with an estate car body, not quite large enough to be -astation wagon the driver was throwing it through the curves and twistsof the road with reckless skill, but the helicopter crept up behindhim.

"Tell him to switch off the beacon light." Peter swung inboard toshout in the flight engineer's ear. He did not want to warn the driverthat he was being followed, but as the engineer lifted the microphoneto his mouth the headlights snapped -out into darkness. The driver hadbecome aware, and after the brilliance of the headlights the nightseemed totally dark, and the car disappeared into it.

Peter felt the helicopter lurch, as the pilot was taken by surprise,and his own dismay was a lance.

We have lost them, he thought, and he knew that it was suicide to flyon in darkness only a few feet above the treetops, but the pilot of thehelicopter steadied the craft and then suddenly the earth below themwas lit by a blaze of stark white light that startled Peter until herealized that the pilot had switched on his landing lights. There weretwo of them, one on each side of the fuselage; they were aimed down andslightly forward.

The escaping car was caught fairly in their brilliance.

The helicopter dropped lower, edging in between the telegraph poles andtrees that lined the narrow road.

Now Peter could see that the car was a dark blue Austin, with acarrying rack bolted to the long roof. It was that carrying rack whichdecided him. Without it no human being could have hoped for purchaseon the smooth rounded roof of the lurching, swaying car.

the doctor in the back seat of the Austin had been the one who spottedthe helicopter. The engine noise and the drumming of the wind hadcovered the whistling whine of the rotors, and Gilly O'Shaughnessy hadchuckled with grim triumph and self-congratulation.

He had deliberately waited for the helicopter to discharge its load offighting men before he had switched on his headlights and roared out ofthe garage into the lane.

He knew it would be many minutes before the assault team realized thatthe burning house was empty and that it would take as long again toregroup and board the helicopter to continue the hunt and by that timehe would be clear; there was a safe house in Dublin or there had been,four year previously. Perhaps it was blown now; in that case he wouldhave to get rid of the brat and Dr. Jameson, a bullet each in the backof the head, and drive the Austin into the Irish Sea.

The wild exhilaration of danger and death was upon him again, thewaiting was over at last and he was living again the way he had chosenthe fox running ahead of the hounds, he was alive again, with his rightfoot thrust flat to the floor boards and the Austin rocketing throughthe night.

The girl was screaming weakly from the back seat, in pain and panic;the doctor was trying to quieten her, and Gilly laughed aloud.

The tyres screeched wildly as he skidded out in the turn, brushing thehedge with the side before he was through.

"They are following," screamed the doctor, as he straightened the carinto the next stretch, then Gilly glanced back over his shoulder.

He could see nothing through the rear windows.

"What?"

"The helicopter-" Gilly lowered his window and, driving with one hand,thrust his head out. The flashing aircraft beacon was close behind andabove, and he ducked back in and looked ahead to make sure that theroad ran straight, then he switched off the headlights.

In total darkness he did not diminish speed, and now when he laughed itwas a wild and reckless sound.

"You're mad , the doctor shrieked. "You'll kill us all!"

"Right you are, doctor!" But his night vision was clearing and hecaught the

Austin before she wandered into the stone wall on the left-hand side,

and at the same moment he jerked the pistol from under his cape andlaid it on the seat beside him.

"There is not going to be, -" he began and then broke off as theblinding light burst over them. The helicopter had switched on itslanding lights the road ahead was brightly lit, and he skidded into thenext turn with rubber squealing.

"Stop!" the doctor pleaded, trying to hold the semiconscious childfrom being hurled about in the swaying cab.

"Let's give up now, before they kill us."

"They've got no fighting men on board," Gilly yelled back at him."There's nothing they can do."

"Give up," the doctor whined. "Let's get out of this alive." And

Gilly O'Shaughnessy threw back his head and roared with laughter.

"I'm keeping three bullets, doctor, one for each of us-"

"They're right on top of us." Gilly snatched up the pistol and onceagain thrust his head and right shoulder out, twisting to lookupwards.

The eye-searing lights beamed down upon him, very close above. It wasall he could see and he fired at them, the crash of the shots lost inthe clattering whistling roar of the rotors and the tearing rush of thewind.

oised in the hatchway, Peter counted the bright orange spurts ofgunfire. There were five of them, but there was no sound of passingshot, no thump of the strike.

"Get lower!" he shouted at the engineer, reinforcing the order withurgent hand signals, and obediently the big machine sank down upon theracing Austin.

Peter gathered himself, judging his moment carefully, and when it camehe launched himself clear of the hatchway, and his guts seemed to craminto his throat as he dropped.

He dropped with all four limbs spread and braced to land together,

but for a moment he thought he had misjudged it and would fall behindthe Austin, into the metal led roadway, to be crushed and shredded bythe forward impetus of the low-flying helicopter.

Then the Austin swerved and checked slightly and Peter crashed into itsroof with stunning force; he felt the metal buckle and sag under him,and then he was rolling and slipping sideways. His whole left side wasnumbed by the force of impact, and he clutched wildly with his righthand, his fingernails tearing at the paintwork, but still he slidtowards the edge, his legs kicking wildly in dark rushing space.

At the last instant before he was hurled into the roadway, his clawedfingers hooked in the framework of the roof rack, and he hung bat-likefrom his one arm. It had taken only a small part of a second,

and immediately the driver of the Austin realized that there was a manon the roof. He slewed the little car from one side of the road to theother, short wrenching turns that brought her over on two outsidewheels before slamming back and twisting the other way.

"The tyres squealed harsh protest, and Peter was flung brutally backand forth, the muscle and tendons of his right arm popping and creakingwith the strain of holding on but feeling was flooding swiftly backinto his numbed left side.

He had to move quickly, he could not survive another of those wrenchingswerves, and he gathered himself, judged the Austin's momentum, andused it to roll and grab with his free hand; at the same moment thetoes of his soft boots found purchase on one of the struts of the roofcarrier, and he pressed himself belly down, clinging with both arms andlegs to the wildly swinging machine.

The Austin checked and steadied as a steep turn appeared ahead in thearc lights of the helicopter which still hung over them. The drivershot the car into the corner, and ahead of them was a long extendeddrop as the road twisted down the-hills towards the coast.

Peter half lifted himself and was about to slide forward when the metalsix inches in front of his nose exploded outwards, leaving a neatlypunched hole through the roof, and tiny fragments of flying metal stunghis cheek; at the same moment the concussion of the pistol shot beat inupon his eardrums. The driver of the Austin was firing blindly upthrough the coach work and he had misjudged Peter's position above himby inches. Peter threw himself desperately to one side, for an instantalmost losing his grip on the struts of the carrier and another pistolbullet clanged out through the metal roof, that one would have takenhim through the belly, and Peter had a fleeting image of the kind ofwound that it would have inflicted, the bullet would have beenmushroomed and deformed by the roof and would have broken up inside hisbody.

Desperately Peter threw himself back the opposite way, trying tooutguess the gunman below him, and once again the crash of the shot andthe metal roof erupted in a little jagged pockmark, flecking thepaintwork away so the rim of the bullet hole shone like polished silvershilling. Again it would have hit him, if he had not moved.

Peter rolled again, tensing his belly muscles in the anticipation ofthe tearing, paralysing impact, expecting the gun shot which did notcome. Only then he remembered the wasted pistol fire the driver hadthrown up at the hovering helicopter. He had emptied his pistol and asthe realization dawned on Peter there was another completely compellingsound, very faint in the drumming rush of the wind and the engine roarbut unmistakable. It was the sound of a young girl screaming and itgalvanized Peter as nothing else, even the threat of death, could havedone.

He came up on toes and fingers, like a cat, and he went forward and tothe right, until he was directly above the driver's seat.

The girl screamed again, and he recognized Melissa-Jane's voice.

There was no question of it, and he slipped the Walther from itsquick-release holster and cocked the hammer with the same movement, oneglance ahead and they were rushing down on another turn in the narrowroad. The driver would be using both hands to control the swaying andbucking little machine.

"Now!" he told himself, and dropped forward, so that he was peeringbackwards and upside-down through the windScreen directly into thedriver's pale face and at a distance of only eighteen inches.

In the thousandth part of a second Peter recognized the dark,

wolfish features and the cold, merciless eyes of the killer. He hadhunted this man for many years and studied his photograph endlesslywhen the hunting of the Provo terrorists had been his life's work.

Gilly O'Shaughnessy was driving with both hands, the pistol stillgripped in one of them and the chamber open for reloading. He snarledat Peter like an animal through the bars of its cage, and Peter firedwith the muzzle of the Walther touching the glass of the windscreen.

The glass starred into a glittering sheet, white and opaque, and thenit collapsed inwards with the force of the wind, filling the interiorof the Austin with flying diamond chips of sparkling glass.

Gilly O'Shaughnessy had thrown up both hands to his face, but brightblood burst from between them, spattering his chest and soaking swiftlyinto the lank black hair.

Still hanging upside down across the Austin's cab, Peter thrust theWalther in "through the shattered windscreen until it almost touchedthe man's body and he fired twice more into his chest, where theexplosive Velex bullets would break up against bone, and would not overpenetrate to harm anybody else in the interior. Melissa-Jane's screamsstill rang clearly in his ears, as he killed Gilly

O'Shaughnessy. He did it as coldly as a veterinary surgeon would putdown a rabid dog, and with as little pleasure, and the bulletspunched

Gilly O'Shaughnessy back on the bucket seat, head lolling from side toside, and Peter expected the howl of the engine to cut out now as thedead man's foot slipped from the accelerator.

It did not happen. There was no change in the engine beat, the bodyhad slid forward and jammed, the knee under the dashboard bearing downfully on the pedal, and the little car flew down the slope of the hill,the stone walls on each side blurring past as though down a tunnel inthe depths of the earth.

Peter wriggled forward and thrust both arms through the shatteredwindscreen and caught the untended wheel as it began to spinaimlessly.

He checked the Austin and swung her back into the road but she had beendriven to her limits, rocking and swaying crazily before she rightedherself and flew down the hill.

It was almost impossible to judge the control needed to keep her on theroad.

Peter was hanging head down, gripping only with knees and toes,

and he had to manipulate the wheel from this inverted position with hisupper arms sawing across the teeth of jagged glass still remaining inthe frame of the windscreen.

The wind whipped and clawed him, and Gilly O'Shaughnessy's body floppedforward bonelessly onto the wheel, jamming it at a critical moment, sothat while Peter used one hand to shove him backwards, the side of theAustin touched the stone wall with a screech of rending metal and ashower of orange sparks. Peter wrenched her back into the road, andshe began a series of uncontrolled broadsides, swinging wildly fromside to side, touching the wall with another jarring shock,

then swinging back sideways to bounce over the verge, then backagain.

She was going over, Peter knew it, and he would be crushed under themetal roof and smeared along the abrasive surface of the macadam road.He should jump now, and take his chances but grimly he stayed with thecrazed machine, for Melissa-Jane was in her and he could not leave.

She survived one more skid, and ahead Peter had the glimpse of a barredwooden gate in the wall. Deliberately he turned the front wheels intothe direction of the next skid, no longer trying to counteract it, butaggravating it IL

steering directly for the gate, and the Austin smashed into it.

A wooden beam cartwheeled over Peter's head, and a scalding cloud ofsteam from the shattered radiator stung his face and hands, and thenthe Austin was into the open field, bouncing and thudding over therocks that studded it, the drag of soft muddy earth slowing her, andthe steep slope of the hillside against her within fifty feet the frontend dropped heavily into a drainage ditch, and the little car shudderedto a halt, canted at an abandoned angle.

Peter slipped over the side and landed on his feet. He jerked open therear door and a man half fell from the cab.

He dropped onto his knees in the mud, blubbering incoherently and Peterdrove his right knee into his face. Bone and cartilage crunchedsharply and there was the crackle of breaking teeth.

His voice was cut off abruptly and, as he dropped, Peter chopped himwith the stiffened blade of his right hand, a controlled blow judgedfinely to immobilize but not to kill, and before the unconscious bodydropped, Peter had gone in over it, He lifted his daughter out of the

Austin, and the frail wasted body felt unsubstantial in his arms, andthe heat of fever and infection burned against his chest.

He was possessed by an almost uncontrollable desire to crush her bodyto him with all the strength of his arms, but instead he carried her asthough she was made of some precious and fragile substance,

stepping carefully over the uneven rocky surface of the field to wherethe helicopter was settling cumbersomely out of the darkness.

The Thor doctor was still aboard her; he jumped clear before thehelicopter touched and ran towards Peter in the brilliant glare of thelanding lights.

Peter found he was crooning so. "It's all right now, darling.

It's all over now. It's all finished, my baby I'm here, little one

Then Peter made another discovery. It was not sweat running down hischeeks and dripping from his chin, and he wondered unashamedly whenlast it was he had wept.

He could not remember, and it did not seem important, not now, not withhis daughter in his arms.

Synthia came down to London, and Peter relived some of those horrorsfrom their marriage.

"Everybody around yOU always has to SUffer, Peter.

Now it's Melissa-Jane's turn." He could not avoid her, nor hermartyred expression, for she was always at Melissa-Jane's bedside.

While he bore her recriminations and barbed accusations, he wonderedthat she had ever been gay and young and attractive. She was two yearsyounger than he was but she already had the shapeless body and greyingmind that made her seem twenty years older.

Melissa-Jane responded almost miraculously to the antibiotics, andalthough she was still weak and skinny and pale, the doctor dischargedher on the third day, and Peter and Cynthia had their final degradinghaggling and bargaining session which Melissa-Jane settled for them.

mummy, I'm still so afraid. Can't I go with Daddy just for a fewdays?" Finally Cynthia agreed with sighs and pained airs that leftthem both feeling a little guilty. On the drive down to Abbots Yew,

where Steven had invited them for as long as was necessary for

Melissa-Jane's convalescence, she sat very quietly beside Peter, herleft hand still in the sling and the finger wearing a small neat whiteturban. She spoke only after they had passed the Heathrow turn off onthe M4.

"All the time I knew you were going to come. I can't remember muchelse. It was always dark and giddy making things kept changing.

I'd look at a face and it would fade away, and then we'd be somewhereelse-"

"It was the drug they were giving you," Peter explained.

"Yes, I know that. I remember the prick of the needle-"

Reflexively she rubbed her upper arm, and shivered briefly.

"But even with the drug I always knew you were going to come. Iremember lying in the darkness listening for your voice. -" There wasthe temptation to try to pretend it had never happened, andMelissa-Jane had not spoken about it until now but

Peter knew she must be allowed to talk it out.

"Would you like to tell me about it?" he invited gently, knowing thatit was essential to the healing process. He listened quietly as shespilled out drug-haunted memories, disjointed scraps of conversationand impressions. The terror was back in her voice when she spoke ofthe dark one.

"He looked at me sometimes. I remember him looking at me-" And

Peter remembered the cold killer's eyes.

"He is dead now, darling."

"Yes, I know. They told me." She was silent for a moment, and thenwent on. "He was so different from the one with grey hair. I likedhim, the old one. His name was Doctor

Jameson."

"How did you know that?" Peter asked.

"That's what the dark one called him." She smiled.

"Doctor Jameson, I remember he always smelled like cough mixture and Iliked him-" The one who had done the amputation, and would have takenher hand as well, Peter thought grimly.

"I never saw the other one. I knew he was there, but I never sawhim."

"The other one?" Peter turned to her sharply. "Which other one,

darling?"

"There was another one and even the dark one was afraid of him. I knewthat, they were all afraid of him."

"You never saw him?"

"No, but they were always talking about him, and arguing about what hewould do--"

Oh, I can't remember." Her voice had risen, a shrill note in terrorthat ripped at Peter's nerves.

"Don't worry about it." He tried to soothe her, but she shook her headwith frustration.

"Not Casper, a name like that. I knew he was the one who really wantedto hurt me they were just doing what he told them. He was the one Iwas truly afraid of." Her voice ended with a sob, and she was sittingbolt upright in the seat.

"It's over now, darling." Peter swung into the verge of the road andbraked to a halt. He reached for her but she was rigid in his arms andat his touch she began to shake uncontrollably. Peter's alarm flared,and he held her to his chest.

"Caliph!" she whispered. "That's his name. Caliph." And she relaxedagainst him softly, and sighed. The shaking stopped slowly.

Peter went on holding her, trying to control the terrible consumingwaves of anger that engulfed him, and it was some little time before herealized suddenly that Melissa-Jane had fallen asleep.

It was as though uttering the name had been a catharsis for her terror,and now she was ready to begin the healing inside.

Peter laid her gently back in the seat and covered her with the angorarug before he drove on, but every few seconds he glanced across to makesure she was at peace.

Twice Peter called Magda Altmann from Abbots Yew, both times to herprivate number, but she was unobtainable and there was no message forhim.

That was five days he had not been able to reach her, not since theDelta Strike which had freed Melissa-jane. She seemed to havedisappeared completely, and Peter pondered the implications during thequiet days when he was almost always alone with his daughter.

Then Dr. Kingston Parker arrived at Abbots Yew, and Sir Steven

Stride was delighted to have as his guest such a distinguishedstatesman.

Kingston Parker's giant personality seemed to fill the beautiful oldhome. When he put himself out, his graciousness was irresistible.Steven was delighted with him, particularly when he discovered thatdespite Parker's image as a liberal and his well-known concern withhuman rights, he was also a champion of the capitalist system, anddetermined that his country should take more seriously itsresponsibilities as leader of the Western world. They both deploredthe loss of the BI bomber and the delaying of the neutron bombprogramme, and the restructuring of America's intelligence agencies.

They spent much of the first afternoon in Steven's redwood-panelledstudy exploring each other's views, and came out of it fast friends.

When they emerged, Parker completed his conquest of the Stridehousehold by showing he shared with Patricia Stride a scholarlyknowledge and love of antique porcelain.

His concern and warmth for Melissa-Jane and his relief at her safetywere too spontaneous not to be entirely genuine.

His conquest of that young lady's affections was complete when he wentdown with her to the stables to meet Florence Nightingale and provethat he was also a fair judge of horseflesh.

"He's a lovely man. I think he is truly an honourable man,"

Melissa-Jane told Peter, when he went up to her bedroom to bid hergoodnight "And he's so kind and funny-" Then, lest there be anyquestion of disloyalty, "But you are still my most favourite man in allthe world." Her cure and convalescence seemed almost complete, andas

Peter went down to rejoin the company he marvelled again at theresilience of young flesh and young minds.

As usual at Abbots Yew there was glittering and stimulating company atdinner, with Kingston Parker at its centre, but afterwards he and Peterexchanged a single glance down the length of Pat Stride's silver- andcandle decorated table and they left them to the port and cognac andcigars and slipped out unobtrusively into the walled rose garden.

While they paced side by side on the crunching gravel pathway,

Kingston Parker stoked his meerschaum and then began to talk quietly.

Once his bodyguard coughed in the shadows where he waited just out ofrange of their subdued voices, but that was the only intrusion and thespring night was still and balmy. Their conversation seemed utterlyincongruous in these surroundings, talk of death and violence, the useand abuse of power, and the manipulations of vast fortunes by a singlemysterious figure.

"It's been five days since I arrived in England-" Kingston Parkershrugged. "One does not rush through the echoing passages of

Whitehall. There was much to discuss-" Peter knew that he had met withthe Prime Minister on two separate occasions " and it wasn't just

Atlas business, I'm afraid-" Parker was one of the President'sconfidants. They would have taken full advantage of his visit toexchange views with the British Government. "However, we did discuss

Atlas in depth and detail. You know very well that Atlas has opponentsand critics on both sides of the Atlantic. They tried very hard tosquash it, and when they could not they saw to it that its power andduties were severely curtailed-" Parker paused and his pipe gurgled.

He flicked out the juices from the mouthpiece onto the gravel path.

"The opponents of Atlas are all highly intelligent concerned andinformed men. Their motives and their reasoning in opposing Atlas arelaudable. I find myself a little in sympathy despite myself. If youcreate a strike force such as Atlas, where enormous powers are placedin the hands of a single man or a small elite leadership, you couldvery well be creating a Frankenstein a monster more frightening thanyou are setting out to destroy."

"That depends on the man who controls it, Dr. Parker. I believe thatthey have the right man."

"Thank you, Peter." Parker turned his big shaggy head and smiled."Won't you please call me Kingston." Peter nodded agreement, whileParker went on. "Atlas has had some spectacular successes atJohannesburg and now in Ireland but that makes it more danger--us.There will be a readier acceptance of the whole concept by the public;if Atlas asks for wider powers, it is more likely they would begranted. And, believe me, if it is to do the job it needs widerpowers, Peter. I find myself torn down the centre-"

"And yet,"

Peter pointed out, "we cannot take on the most dangerous animal in theworld, man the killer, we cannot do it without arming ourselves inevery possible way." Kingston Parker sighed. "And if Atlas achievesthose powers, who can say when they will be abused, when will the ruleof force supersede the rule of law?"

"The rules have changed. The rule of law is so often powerless in theface -of those who have no respect for the law."

"There is another aspect, Peter. One that I have thought about half mylife. What about the rule of unjust law? The laws of oppression andgreed. A law that enslaves or deprives a man because of the colour ofhis face or the god he worships? If a duly constituted parliamentmakes racial laws or if the General Assembly of the United

Nations declares that Zionism is a form of Imperialism and must beoutlawed. What if a handful of men gain control of the world'sresources and legally manipulate them in a manner dictated by personalgreed to the detriment of all mankind, such as the Committee of the

OPEC, the Shah and the King of Saudi Arabia-" Kingston Parker made ahelpless gesture, spreading those long sensitive fingers. "Must werespect those laws? The rule of law, even unjust law, is itsacrosanct?"

"Balance," said Peter. "There has to be a balance between law andforce."

"Yes, but what is the balance, Peter?" He abruptly closed his handsinto fists. "I have asked for greater powers for

Atlas, wider scope for its use, and I think these will be granted.

When they are, we will have need of good men, Peter." Kingston Parkerreached out and took Peter's shoulder in a surprisingly powerfulgrip.

"Just men, who can recognize when the rule of law has either failed oris unjust, and who have the courage and the vision to act to restorethe balance that you spoke of a moment ago." His hand was still on

Peter's shoulder and he left it there.

It was a natural gesture, without affectation.

"I believe you are one of those men." He let the hand drop, and hismanner changed. "Tomorrow I have arranged that we meet with

Colonel Noble. He has been busy breaking down and examining theentire

Irish operation, and I hope he will have come up with something for usto get our teeth into. Then there is much else to discuss. Twoo'clock at Thor Command, will it suit you, Peter?"

"Of course."

"Now let's go in and join the company."

"Wait." Peter stopped him. "I have something I must tell, Kingston.It's been tearing at my guts, and after you you have heard it you mayalter your opinion of me my suitability for my role at Atlas."

"Yes?" Parker turned back and waited quietly.

"You know that the people who kidnapped my daughter made no demands forher return, made no attempt to contact me or the police tonegotiate."

"Yes," Parker answered. "Of course. It was one of the puzzling thingsabout the whole business."

"It was untrue. There was a contact and a demand."

"I don't understand." Parker frowned and thrust his face closer toPeter's, as though trying to study his expression in the poor lightfrom the windows.

"The kidnappers contacted me. A letter which I destroyed-"

"Why?"

Parker shot at him.

"Wait. I'll explain," Peter replied. "There was a single conditionfor my daughter's release, and a deadline of two weeks. If I

did not meet the condition by that time, they would have sent me partsof my daughter's body her hands, her feet, and finally her head."

"Diabolical," Parker whispered. "Inhuman. What was the condition?"

"A

life for a life," said Peter. "I was to kill you in exchange for

Melissa-Jane." Parker started, throwing back his head with shock.

"They wanted me?" Peter did not reply, and they stood staring at eachother, until Parker raised his hand and combed at his hair, adistracted gesture.

"That changes it all. I will have to think it out carefully but itmakes a whole new scenario." He shook his head.

They were going for the head of Atlas. Why? Because I was thechampion of Atlas, and they opposed its formation? No! That's not it.There seems only one logical explanation. I told you last time I

saw you that I suspected the existence of a central figure thepuppetmaster who was taking control of all known militant organizationsand welding them into a single cohesive and formidable entity.

Well, Peter, I have been hunting this figure. I have learned much toconfirm my suspicions since last we met. I believe this person, orassembly of persons, does in fact exist part of the new powers I haveasked for Atlas were to be used to hunt and destroy this organizationbefore it does grave damage before it succeeds in so terrifying thenations of the world that it becomes itself a world power.-" Parkerstopped as though to gather his thoughts, and then went on in quiet,

more measured tones. "I think now that this is absolute proof that itdoes exist, and that it is aware of my suspicions and intentions todestroy it. When I set you up as Atlas agent at large, I believed youwould make contact with the enemy but, God knows, I did not expect itto come like this." He paused again, considering it. "Incredible!"hemarvelled.

"The one person whom I would never have suspected, you Peter. Youcould have reached me at any time, one of the few people who could.

And the leverage! Your daughter the protracted mutilations I may havejust misjudged the cunning and ruthlessness of the enemy."

"Have you ever heard the name Caliph?" Peter asked.

"Where did you hear that?" Parker demanded harshly.

"The demand letter was signed Caliph, and Melissa-Jane heard hercaptors discussing it."

"Caliph." Parker nodded. "Yes, I have heard the name, Peter. Since Ilast spoke to you. I have heard the name.

Indeed I have." He was silent again, sucking distractedly on his pipe,then he looked up. "I will tell you how and when tomorrow when we meetat Thor, but now you have given me much to keep me awake tonight." Hetook Peter's arm and led him back towards the house.

Warm yellow light and laughter spilled out from the downstairs windows,welcoming and gay, but both of them were withdrawn and silent as theytrudged up the smoothly raked path.

"Better than poison," Parker grunted. "Not as good as a gun." Andthen angrily, "We have to stop him, Peter. It is a duty thatsupersedes every other consideration."

"What I have just told you does not alter our relationship?" Peterasked. "The fact that I would have been your assassin does not changeit?"

"Strangely enough, it merely confirms what I have come to believe ofyou, Peter. You are a man with the hard ruthless streak we need, if weare to survive." He smiled bleakly. "I might wake up sweating in thenight but it doesn't alter what we have to do. Colin Noble with hischeroot, and opposite him Kingston Parker with the amber meerschaum,seemed to be in competition as to who could soonest render the air inthe room incapable of supporting human life. It was already thick andblue, and the temporary headquarters of Thor Command lackedair-conditioning, but within minutes Peter had become so immersed inwhat he was hearing that the discomfort was forgotten.

Colin Noble was going over the details of the Irish operation, and allthat had been gleaned from it.

"The house, the Old Manse, was burned to the ground, of course.

The Irish constabulary had twenty men sifting through the ashes-" Hespread his hands. "A big nix.

Nothing at all."

"Next the contents of the Austin and its provenance how do you likethat word, Peter baby? Provenance, that's a classy word." Parkersmiled indulgently. "Please go on, Colin."

"The Austin was stolen in Dublin, and refitted with the roof carrier.It contained nothing, no papers, nothing in the glove compartment orboot, it had been stripped and cleaned out by an expert-"

"The men," Parker prompted him.

ly of Gerald es, sir. The men. The dead one first. Name known as"Gilly", born Belfast 1946-" O'Shaughnessy, also As he spoke Colinpicked up the file that lay on the table in front of him. It was fiveinches thick. " Do we want to read all of it? It's a hell of a story.The guy had a track record-" "Only as far as it concerns

Atlas," Parker told him.

There is no evidence as to when or how he became involved with thisbusiness-" Colin sketched the facts swiftly and succinctly. " So weend with the contents of his pockets. Six hundred pounds sterling,thirty-eight rounds of .38 ammunition, and papers in the name of Edwardand Helen Barry forged, but beautifully forged." Colin closed the filewith a slap. "Nothing,"he repeated. "Nothing we can use. Now theother man. Morrison Claude Bertram Morrison celebrated abortionist anddedicated alcoholic.

Struck off the medical rolls in 1969-" Again he recounted the sordidhistory swiftly and accurately. " His price for the digital surgerywas three thousand pounds half in advance. Hell, that's cheaper thanthe Blue Cross." Colin grinned but his eyes were black and bright withanger. "I am pleased to report that he can expect a sentence ofapproximately fifteen years. They are going to throw the book at him.There is only one item of any possible interest which he could give us.Gilly O'Shaughnessy was the leader from whom he took his orders,O'Shaughnessy in turn took his orders from somebody called-" He pauseddramatically.

"Yes, that's right. The name we have all heard before.

Caliph." just one point here," Kingston Parker interrupted.

"Caliph likes to use his name. He signs it on his correspondence.

Even his lowliest thugs are given the name to use. Why?"

"I think I

can answer that." Peter stirred and raised his head. "He wants us toknow that he exists. We must have a focal point for our fear andhatred. When he was merely a nameless, faceless entity he was notnearly as menacing as he is now."

"I think you are right." Parker nodded his head gravely.

"By using the name he is building up a store of credibility which hewill draw upon later. In future when Caliph says he will kill ormutilate we know he is in deadly earnest, there . will be nocompromise. He will do exactly as he promises. The man, or men, areclever psychologists."

"There is just one aspect of the Irish operation we have not yetconsidered," Peter broke in, frowning with concentration. "That is whowas it that tipped us off, and what was the reason for that telephonecall?" They were all silent, until Parker turned to Colin.

"What do you think of that one?"

"I have discussed it with the police, of course. It was one of thefirst things that puzzled us.

The police believe that Gilly O'Shaughnessy picked his hideout in

Ireland because he was familiar with the terrain, and had friendsthere. It was his old stamping ground when he was with the Provos.

He could move and disappear, get things fixed." Colin paused and sawthe sceptical expression on Peter's face.

"Well, look at it this way, Peter baby. He had a woman negotiate thelease on the Old Manse Kate Barry, she called herself and signed it onthe lease so that was one ally. There must have been others,

because he was able to buy a stolen and reworked automobile he wouldhave had difficulty doing that in Edinburgh or London without the wordgetting about." Peter nodded reluctantly. "All right, having theIrish connection helped him, Ad But there was the other side of thecoin. O'Shaughnessy had enemies, even in the Provos. He was aruthless bastard with a bloody record. We can only believe that one ofthose enemies saw the chance to make a score the one who sold him thestolen auto, perhaps. We have had the recording of the tip-off callexamined by language experts and had a run against the voice prints onthe computer. Nothing definite. The voice was disguised, probablythrough a handkerchief and nose plugs, but the general feeling is thatit was an Irishman who made the call. The boffins from the telephonedepartment were able to test the loading of the line and guess it was acall from a foreign country very likely Ireland, although they cannotbe certain of that." Peter

Stride raised one eyebrow slightly, and Colin chuckled weakly and wavedthe cheroot at him in a wide gesture of invitation.

"Okay. That's my best shot," he said. "Let's hear you do better.

If you don't like my theories, you must have one of your own."

"You are asking me to believe it was all a coincidence; thatO'Shaughnessy just happened to run into an old enemy who just happenedto tip us off twenty-four hours before the deadline for Melissa-Jane'shand to be amputated. Then it just so happened that we reached Laraghat exactly the same moment as O'Shaughnessy was pulling out and makinga run for it. Is that what you want me to believe?"

"Something like that,"Colin admitted.

"Sorry, Colin. I just don't like coincidence."

"Shoot!" Colin invited. "Let's hear how it really happened."

"I don't know," Peter grinned phicatingly. "It is just that I havethis feeling that Caliph doesn't deal in coincidence either. I havethis other feeling that somehow Gilly O'Shaughnessy had the death markon his forehead from the beginning. I have this feeling it was allpart of the plan."

"it must be great fun to have these feelings." Colin was prickling alittle.

"But they sure as hell aren't much help to me.) "Take it easy." Peterheld up one hand in surrender. "Let's accept tentatively that ithappened your way, then-"

"But?"Colin asked.

"No buts not until we get some more hard evidence-"

"Okay,

buster." There was no smile on Colin's face now, the wide mouthclamped in a grim line. "You want hard evidence, try this one forsize-"

"Hold it, Colin," Parker shot in quickly, authoritatively.

"Wait for a moment before we come to that." And Colin Noble deflatedwith a visible effort, the cords in his throat smoothing out and theline of mouth relaxed into the old familiar grin as he deferred toKingston Parker.

"Let's backtrack here a moment," Parker suggested. "Peter came up withthe name Caliph. In the meantime we had picked up the same name butfrom an entirely different source. I promised Peter I would tell himabout our source because I think it gives us a new insight into thisentire business." He paused and tinkered with his pipe, using one ofthose small tools with folding blades and hooks and spikes with whichpipe smokers arm themselves. He scraped the bowl and knocked a nub ofhalf-burned tobacco into the ashtray, before peering into the pipe-theway a rifleman checks the bore of his weapon. Peter realized thatParker used his pipe as a prop for his performances, the way a magiciandistracts his audience with flourishes and mumbo jumbo He was not aman to underestimate, Peter thought again for the hundredth time.

Kingston Parker looked up at him and smiled, a conspiratorial smile asif to acknowledge that Peter had seen through his little act.

Intelligence Agency has received an appeal from the King following themurder of one of his grandsons. You recall the case, I'm sure---2

Peter had a strange feeling of deji-vu as he, listened to Kingston

Parker confirming exactly the circumstances that he and Magda Altmannhad discussed and postulated together, was it only three weeksbefore?

You see the King and his family are in a very vulnerable positionreally. Did you know that there are at least seven hundred Saudiprinces who are multimillionaires, and who are close to the King'saffections and power structure? It would be impossible to guard thatmany potential victims adequately. It's really damned good thinkingyou don't have to seize a hostage with all the attendant risks. Thereis virtually an unlimited supply of them walking around, ripe forplucking, and an inexhaustible supply of assassins to be eitherpressured or paid to do the job, just as long as you have theinformation and leverage, or just enough money. Caliph seems to haveall that."

"What demand has been made upon Khalid?"Peter asked.

"We know for certain that he has received a demand, and that he hasappealed to the CIA for assistance to protect and guard his family.

The demand came from an agency or person calling himself Caliph. We donot know what the demand is but it may be significant that Khalid andthe Shah of Persia have both agreed that they will not support a crudeoil price increase at the next pricing session of OPEC, but on thecontrary they will push for a five per cent decrease in the price ofcrude."

"Caliph's thinking has paid off again," Peter murmured.

"It looks like it, doesn't it." Parker nodded, and then chuckledbitterly. "And once again you get the feeling, as with his demands tothe South African Government, that his final objective is desirableeven if the way he goes about procuring it is slightlyunconventional,

to say the least."

"To say the very least," Peter agreed quietly,

remembering the feel of Melissa-Jane's fever-racked body against hischest.

"So there is no doubt now that what we feared, is fact.

Caliph exists-" said Parker.

"Not only exists, but flourishes," Peter agreed.

"Alive and well with a nice house in the suburbs." Colin lit the stubof his cheroot before going on. "Hell! He succeeded at

Johannesburg. He is succeeding at Riyadh where does he go from therewhy not the Federation of Employers in West Germany? The Trade Unionleaders in Great Britain? Any group powerful enough to affect the fateof nations, and small enough to be terrorized as individuals."

"It's a way to sway and direct the destiny of the entire world you justcannot guard all the world's decision makers from personal attack,

Peter agreed. "And it's no argument to point out that because hisfirst two targets have been South Africa and the oil monopoly, then thelong term results will be to the benefit of mankind. His ultimatetarget will almost certainly be the democratic process itself.

I don't think there can be any doubt that Caliph sees himself as a god.He sees himself as the paternal tyrant. His aim is to cure the ills ofthe world by radical surgery, and to maintain its health byunrestrained force and fear." Peter could remain seated no longer. Hepushed back his chair and crossed to the windows, standing there in thesoldier's stance, balanced on the balls of his feet with both handsclasped lightl behind his back. There was an uninspiring view of thehigh barbed-wire fence, part of the airfield and the corrugated sheetwall of the nearest hangar.

A Thor sentry paced before the gates with a white MP.

helmet on his head and side arm strapped to his waist. Peter watchedhim without really seeing him, and behind him the two men at the tableexchanged a significant glance.

Colin Nobleasked a silent question and Parker answered with a curt nodof affirmative.

"All right, Peter," Colin said. "A little while back you asked forhard facts. I promised to give you a few." Peter turned back from thewindow and waited.

"Item One. During the time that Gilly O'Shaughnessy held

Melissa-Jane in Laragh, two telephone calls were made from the Old

Manse. They were both international calls.

They both went through the local telephone exchange. The first callwas made at seven p.m. local time on the first of this month.

That would have been the first day that they could have reached thehideout. We have to guess it was an "All Well" report to the topmanagement. The second call was exactly seven days later again atseven o'clock local time precisely. To the same number. We have toguess that it was another report, "All is still well". Both calls wereless than one minute in duration. Just time enough to pass aprearranged code message-" Colin broke off and looked again atKingston

Parker.

"Go on," Parker instructed.

"The calls were to a French number. Rambouillet 47-87-47." Peter feltit hit him in the stomach, a physical blow, and he flinched his head,for a moment closing both his eyes tightly. He had called that numberso often, the numerals were graven on his memory.

"No." He shook his head, and opened his eyes. "I'm not going tobelieve it."

"It's true, Peter," Parker said gently.

Peter walked back to his seat. His legs felt rubbery and shaky underhim. He sat down heavily.

The room was completely silent. Neither of the other two lookeddirectly at Peter Stride.

Kingston Parker made a gesture to Colin and obediently he slid the redbox file, tied with red tapes, across the cheap vinyl topped table.

Parker untied the tapes and opened the file. He shuffled the papers,scanning them swiftly. Clearly he was adept at speed reading and wasable to assimilate each typed double spaced page at a glance but now hewas merely waiting for Peter to recover from the shock. He knew thecontents of the red file almost by heart.

Peter Stride slumped in the steel-framed chair with its uncushionedwooden seat, staring sightlessly at the bulletin board on the oppositewall on which were posted the Thor rosters.

He found it hard to ride the waves of dismay that flooded over him. Hefelt chilled and numbed, the depth of this betrayal devastated him, andwhen he closed his eyes again he had a vivid image of the slim, tenderbody with the childlike breasts peeping through a silken curtain ofdark hair.

He straightened in his seat, and Kingston Parker recognized the momentand looked up at him, half closing the file and turning it towardshim.

The cover bore the highest security gradings available to Atlas

Command and below them was typed:

ALT MANN MAG DA IRENE. Born KUTCHINSKY

Peter realized that he had never known her second name was Irene.

Magda Irene. Hell, they were really ugly names made special only bythe woman who bore them.

Parker turned the file back to himself and began to speak quietly.

"When last you and I met, I told you of the special interest we had inthis lady. That interest has continued, unabated, since then,

or rather it has gathered strength with every fresh item of informationthat has come to us." He opened the file again and glanced at it as ifto refresh his memory. "Colin has been very successful in enlistingthe full co-operation of the intelligence agencies of both ourcountries, who in turn have been able to secure that of the French andbelieve it or not the Russians. Between the four countries we havebeen able to at last piece together the woman's history-" He brokeoff.

"Remarkable woman," and shook his head in admiration. "Quiteincredible really.

I can understand how she is able to weave spells around any man shechooses. I can understand, Peter, your evident distress. I am goingto be utterly blunt now we have no time nor space in which to manoeuvretactfully around your personal feelings. We know that she has takenyou as a lover. You notice that I phrase that carefully.

Baroness Altmann takes lovers, not the other way around. She takeslovers deliberately -and with careful forethought. I have no doubtthat once she has made the decision, she accomplishes the rest of itwith superb finesse." Peter remembered her coming to him and the exactwords she had used. "I am not very good at this, Peter, and I want sobadly to be good for you." The words had been chosen with the finessethat Kingston Parker had just spoken of. They were exactly timed tomake herself irresistible to Peter and afterwards she had given thegentle lie to them with the skill and devilish cunning of her hands andmouth and body.

"You see, Peter. She had special and expert training in all the artsof love. There are probably few women in the Western world who know asmuch about reading a man, and then pleasing him. What she knows shedid not learn in Paris or London or New York-" Kingston Parker pausedand frowned at Peter. "This is all theory and hearsay, Peter.

You are in a better position to say just how much of it is false?"

The ultimate skill in pleasing a man is to fuel his own belief inhimself, Peter thought, as he returned Parker's inquiring gaze withexpressionless eyes. He remembered how with Magda Altmann he had feltlike a giant, capable of anything. She had made him feel like thatwith a word, a smile, a gift, a touch that was the ultimate skill.

He did not answer Parker's question. "Go on please, Kingston," heinvited. Externally, he had himself completely under control now. Hisright hand lay on the table top, with the fingers half open, relaxed.

"I told you that even as a child she showed special talents. Inlanguages, mathematics her father was an amateur mathematician of someimportance chess and other games of skill. She attracted attention.Especially she attracted attention because her father was a member ofthe Communist Party-" Parker broke off as Peter lifted his head insharp inquiry. i - I'm sorry, Peter. We did not know that when lastwe met. We have learned it since from the French, they have access tothe party records in Paris it seems, and it was confirmed by theRussians themselves.

Apparently the child used to accompany her father to meetings of theParty, and soon showed a precocious political awareness andunderstanding. Her father's friends were mostly party members, andafter his death there still remains a mystery around his death.

Neither the French nor the Russians are forthcoming on the subject.Anyway, after his death, Magda Kutchinsky was cared for by thesefriends. It seemed she was passed on from family to family" Kingston

Parker slid a postcard-sized photograph from a marbline envelope andpassed it across the table to Peter, from this period." It showed arather skinny girl in short skirts and dark stockings, wearing theyoked collar and straw bonnet of the French schoolgirl. Her hair wasin two short braids, tied with ribbons, and she-held a small fluffywhite dog in her arms. The background was a Parisian summer parkscene, with a group of men playing boule and chestnut trees in fullleaf.

The child's face was delicately featured with huge beautiful eyes,

somehow wise and compassionate beyond her age, and yet still imbuedwith the fresh innocence of childhood.

"You can see she already had all the markings of spectacular beauty."Kingston Parker grunted, and reached across to take back thephotograph. For a moment Peter's fingers tightened instinctively; hewould have like to have kept it, but he relaxed and let it go. Parkerglanced at it again and then slipped it back into the envelope.

"Yes. She attracted much interest, and very soon an uncle from the oldcountry wrote to her. There were photographs of her father and themother she had never known, anecdotes of her infancy and her father'syouth. The child was enchanted. She had never known she had anuncle.

Her father had never spoken of his relatives, but now at last thelittle orphan found she had family. It took only a few more letters,

exchanges of delight and affection, and then it was all arranged. Theuncle came to fetch her in person and Magda Kutchinsky went back to

Poland." Parker spread his hands. "It was easy as that."

"The missing years," Peter said, and his Voice SOLinded strange in hisown ears. He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably underParker's piercing but understanding gaze.

"No longer missing, Peter. We have been fed a little glimmering ofwhat happened during those years and we have been able to fill in therest of it from what we knew already."

"The Russians?" Peter asked,

and when Parker nodded, Peter went on with a bitter tang to hisvoice.

"They seem to be very forthcoming, don't they? I have never heard ofthem passing information at least not valuable information soreadily."

"They have their reasons in this case," Parker demurred.

"Very good reasons as it turns out but one will come to those in duecourse." "Very well." The child returned with her uncle to Poland,

Warsaw.

And there was an extravagant family reunion. We are not certain ifthis was her real family, or whether the child was provided with afoster family for the occasion. In any event, the uncle soon announcedthat if Magda would submit to examination there was an excellent chancethat she would be provided with a scholarship to one of the elitecolleges of the USSR. We can imagine that she passed her examinationwith great distinction and her new masters must have congratulatedthemselves on their discovery.

"The college is on the shores of the Black Sea near Odessa. It doesnot have a name, nor an old school tie. The students are veryspecially selected, the screening is rigorous and only the brightestand most talented are enrolled. They are soon taught that they are anelite group, and are streamed in the special direction that theirvarious talents dictate. In Magda's case it was languages andpolitics, finance and mathematics. She excelled and at the age ofseventeen graduated to a higher, more specialized branch of the Odessacollege. There she was trained in special memory techniques, thealready bright mind was honed down to a razor edge. I understand thatone of the less difficult exercises was to be given access to a list ofa hundred diverse items for sixty seconds. The list had to be repeatedfrom memory, in the correct order, twenty-four hours later." Parkershook his head again, expressing his admiration.

"At the same time she was also trained to fit naturally intoupper-class international Western society. Dress, food, drink,

cosmetics, manners, popular music and literature, cinema theatre,

democratic politics, business procedures, the operation of stocks andcommodities markets, the more mundane secretarial skills, moderndancing, the art of lovemaking and pleasuring men that and much else,

all of it taught by experts flying, skiing, weapons, the rudiments ofelectronics and mechanical engineering and every other skill that atop-class agent might have to call upon.

"She was the star of her course and emerged from it much as the womanyou know. Poised, skilled, beautiful, motivated and deadly.

"At the age of nineteen she knew more, was capable of more, than mostother human beings, male or female, twice her age. The perfect agent,except for a small flaw in her make-up that only showed up later. Shewas too intelligent and too personally ambitious." Kingston

Parker smiled for the first time in twenty minutes. Which of course isa pseudonym for greed. Her masters did not recognize it in her, andperhaps at that age it was only latent greed. She had not yet beenfully exposed to the attractions of wealth nor of unlimited power."

"Greed for wealth alone belongs essentially to the lower levels ofhuman intelligence. It is only the developed and advanced mind thatcan truly appreciate the need for power-" He saw the protest in Peter'sexpression. No, no, I don't mean merely the power to control one's ownlimited environment, merely the power of life and death over a fewthousand lives not that, but true power. Power to change the destinyof nations, power such as Caesar or Napoleon wielded, such as the

President of the United States wields that is the ultimate greed,

Peter. A magnificent and noble greed." He was silent a moment, asthough glimpsing some vision of splendour. Then he went on: "

digress. Forgive me," and turned to Colin Noble. "Do we have somecoffee, Colin? I think we could all do with a cup now. Colin went tothe machine that blooped and gurgled and winked its red eye in thecorner, and while he filled the cups, the charged atmosphere in theroom eased a little, and Peter tried to arrange his thoughts in somelogical sequence. He looked for the flaws and weak places in the storybut could find none instead he remembered only the feel of her mouth,the touch of her hands on his body. Oh God, it was a stab of physicalpain, a deep ache in the chest and groin, as he remembered how she hadcoursed him like a running stag, driving and goading him on tounvisited depths of his being. Could such skills be taught, hewondered, and if so, by whom? He had a horrifying thought of a specialroom set on the heights above the Black Sea, with that slim, vulnerabletender body practising its skills, learning love as though it werecookery or small arms practice and then he shut his mind firmly againstit, and Kingston Parker was speaking again, balancing his coffee cupprimly with his pinky finger raised, like an old maid at a tea party.

"So she arrived back in Paris and it fell at her feet. It was atriumphant progress." Kingston Parker prodded in the file with hisfree hand, spilling out photographs of Magda Magda dancing in theballroom of the Elysee Palace, Magda leaving a Rolls-Royce limousineoutside

Maxim's in the rue Royale, Magda skiing, riding, beautiful, smiling,

poised and always there were men. Rich, well-fed, sleek men.

(I told you once there were eight sexual liaisons." Kingston

Parker used that irritating expression again. "We have had reason torevise that figure. The French take a very close interest in that sortof thing, they have added to the list." He flicked over thephotographs. "Pierre Hammond, Deputy Minister of Defence-" Andanother. "Mark Vincent, head of mission at the American Consulate-"

"Yes," Peter cut in short, but still there was a sickly fascination inseeing the faces of these men. He had imagined them accurately, herealized, without particular relish.

"Her masters were delighted as you can imagine. With a male agent itis sometimes necessary to wait a decade or more for results while hemoles his way into the system.

With a young and beautiful woman she has her greatest value when thoseassets are freshest. Magda Kutchinsky gave them magnificent value. Wedo not know the exact extent of her contributions our

Russian friends have not bared everything to us, I'm afraid, but I

estimate that it was about this time they began to realize her truepotential. She had the magical touch, but her beauty and youth couldnot last for even" Kingston Parker made a deprecating gesture with theslim pianist's hands. "We do not know if Aaron Altmann was adeliberate choice by her masters. But it seems likely. Think of itone of the richest and most powerful men in Western Europe, one whocontrolled most of the steel and heavy engineering producers, thesingle biggest armaments complex, electronics all associated andsensitive secondary industries. He was a widower, childless, sounder

French law his wife could inherit his entire estate.

He was known to be fighting a slowly losing battle with cancer, so hislife term was limited and he was also a Zionist and one of the mosttrusted and influential members of Mossad. It was beautiful.

Truly beautiful" said Kingston Parker. "Imagine being able toundermine a man of that stature, perhaps being able to double him!

Though that seemed an extravagant dream not even the most beautifulsiren of history could expect to turn a man like Aaron Altmann. He isa separate study on his own, another incredible human being with thestrength and courage of a lion until the cancer wore him out. Again

I digress, forgive me. Somebody, either the Director of the NKVD in

Moscow, or Magda Kutchinsky's control at the Russian Embassy inParis,

who was, incidentally, the Chief NKVD Commissar for Western Europe,

such was her value, or Magda Kutchinsky herself, picked AaronAltmann.

Within two years she was indispensable to him. She was cunning enoughnot to use her sexual talents upon him immediately.

Altmann could have any woman who took his fancy, and he usually did.His sexual appetites were legendary, and they probably were the causeof his remaining childless. A youthful indiscretion resulted in avenereal disease with complications. It was later completely cured,

but the damage was irreversible, he never produced an heir." He was aman who would have toyed with her and cast her aside as soon as hetired of her, if she had been callow enough to make herself immediatelyavailable to him.

First, she won his respect and admiration. Perhaps she was the firstwoman he had ever met whose brain and strength and determinationmatched his own Kingston Parker selected another photograph and passedit across the table. Fascinated, Peter stared at the black and whiteimage of a heavily built man with a bull neck, and a solid thrustingjaw. Like so many men of vast sexual appetite, he was bald except fora Friar Tuck frill around the cannon ball dome of his skull. But therewere humorous lines chiselled about his mouth, and his eyes, thoughfierce, looked as though they too could readily crinkle with laughterlines. Portrait of Power, Peter thought.

"When at last she gave him access to her body, it must have been likesome great electrical storm." Kingston Parker seemed to bedeliberately dwelling on her past love affairs, and Peter would haveprotested had not the information he was receiving been so vital.

"This man and woman must have been able to match each other onceagain.

Two very superior persons, two in a hundred million probably it isinteresting to speculate what might have happened if they had been ableto produce a child." Kingston Parker chuckled. "It would probablyhave been a mongolian idiot life is like that." Peter movedirritably,

hating this turn in the conversation, and Parker went -on smoothly.

"So they married, and NKVD had a mole in the centre of Westernindustry. Narmco, Altmann's armaments complex, was manufacturing topsecret American, British and French missile hardware for NATO. Thenew

Baroness was on the Board, was in fact Deputy Chairman of Narmco. Wecan be sure that armaments blueprints were passed, not by the sheet butby the truckload. Every night, the leaders and decision-makers ofthe

Western world sat at the new Baroness's board and swilled herchampagne. Every conversation, every nuance and indiscretion wasrecorded by that specially trained memory, and slowly, inevitably,the

Baron's strength was whittled away. He began to rely more and moreupon her. We do not know exactly when she began to assist him withhis

Mossad activities but when it happened the Russians had succeeded intheir design. In effect they had succeeded in turning Baron Aaron

Altmann, they had his right hand and his heart for by this time thedying Baron was completely besotted by the enchantress.

They could expect to inherit the greater part of Western European heavyindustry. It was all very easy until the latent defect in the

Baroness's character began to SUrface.

We can only imagine the alarm of her Russian imislers when theydetected the first signs that the Baroness was working for herselfalone. She was brighter by far than any of the men who had up untilthat time controlled her, and she had been given a taste of realpower.

The taste seemed very much to her liking. We can only imagine thegargantuan battle of wills between the puppet masters and the beautifulpuppet that had suddenly developed a mind and ambitions of her very ownquite simply her ambition now was to be the most wealthy and powerfulwoman since Catherine of Russia, and the makings were almost within herpretty hands except-" Kingston Parker stopped; like a born storyteller,he knew instinctively how to build up the tension in his audience.

He rattled his coffee cup.

"This talking is thirsty business." Colin and Peter had to rousethemselves with a physical effort. They had been mesmerized by thestory and the personality of the storyteller. When Parker had his cuprefilled, he sipped at it, then went on speaking.

"There was one last lever her Russian masters had over her. Theythreatened to expose her. It was quite a neat stroke, really. A manlike Aaron Altmann would have acted like an enraged bull if he hadknown how he had been deceived. His reaction was predictable. Hewould have divorced Magda immediately. Divorce is difficult in Francebut not for a man like the Baron. Without his protection Magda wasnothing, less than nothing, for her value to the Russians would havecome to an end. Without the Altmann Empire her dreams of power woulddisappear like a puff of smoke. It was a good try it would have workedagainst an ordinary person, but of course they were not dealing with anordinary person-" Parker paused again; it was clear he was as wrappedup by the story as they were, and he was drawing out the pleasure ofthe telling of it.

"I have been doing a lot of talking," he smiled at Peter.

"I'm going to let you have a chance now, Peter. You know her a little,you have learned a lot more about her in the last hour. Can you guesswhat she did?" Peter began to shake his head and then it crashed inupon him with sickening force, and he stared at Parker, the pupils ofhis eyes dilating with the strength of his revulsion.

"I think you have guessed." Parker nodded. "Yes, we can imagine thatby this stage she was becoming a little impatient herself The

Baron was taking a rather long time to die."

"Christ, it's horrible."

Peter grunted, as though in pain.

" From one point of view, I agree." Parker nodded. "But if you lookat it like a chess player, and remember she is a player of Grand

Master standard, it was a brilliant stroke.

She arranged that the Baron be kidnapped. There are witnesses to thefact that she insisted on the Baron accompanying her that day. He wasfeeling very bad, and he did not want to go sailing, but she insistedthat the sun and fresh air would be good for him. He never took hisbodyguard when he went sailing. There were just the two of them. Avery fast cruiser was waiting offshore-" He spread his hands.

"You know the details?"

"No," Peter denied it.

"The cruiser rammed the yacht. Picked the Baron out of the water,

but left the Baroness. An hour later there was a radio message to thecoast guard they went out and found her still clinging to thewreckage.

The kidnappers were very concerned that she survived."

"They may have wanted a loving wife to bargain with," Peter suggestedswiftly.

"That is possible, of course, and she certainly played the role of thebereaved wife to perfection. When the ransom demand came it was shewho forced the Board of Altmann Industries to ante up the twenty-fivemillion dollars. She personally took the cash to the rendezvousalone." Parker paused significantly.

"She didn't need the money."

"Oh, but she did," Parker contradicted. "The Baron was not in hisdotage, you know, His hands were still very firmly on the reins and thepurse strings. Magda had as much as any ordinary wife could wish for,furs, jewellery, servants,

clothes, cars, boats pocket money, around two hundred thousand dollarsa year, paid to her as a salary from Altmann Industries. Any ordinarywife would have been well content but she was not an ordinary wife. Wemust believe she had already planned how to carry forward her dreams ofunlimited power and it needed money, not thousands but millions.Twenty-five million would be a reasonable stopgap, until she could gether pretty little fingers on the big apple. She drove with the cash,in thousand-Swiss-franc bills, I understand; she drove alone to someabandoned airfield and had a plane come pick it up and fly it out toSwitzerland. Damned neat."

"But-" Peter searched for some means of denial. But the Baron wasmutilated. She couldn't-"

"Death is death, mutilation may have served some obscure purpose. Godknows,

we're dealing with an Eastern mind, devious, sanguinary perhaps themutilation was merely to make any suspicion of the wife completelyfarfetched just as you immediately used it to protect her." He wasright, of course. The mind that could plain and execute the rest ofsuch a heinous scheme would not baulk at the smaller niceties ofexecution. He had no more protest to make.

"So let us review what she had achieved by this stage.

She was rid of the Baron, and the restrictions he placed upon her.

An example of these restrictions, for we will find it significantlater: she was very strongly in favour of Narmco banning the sale ofall weapons and armaments to the South African Government. TheBaron,

ever the businessman, looked upon that country as a lucrative market.

There was also the South African sympathy for Zionism. He overruledher, and Narrnco continued to supply aircraft, missiles and lightarmaments to that country right up until the official UN resolution toenforce a total arms embargo, with France ratifying it. Remember the

Baroness's anti south African attitude. We come to it again later.

"She was rid of the Baron. She was rid of her Russian control,

well able to maintain a small army to protect herself. Even herformer

Russian masters would hesitate to take revenge on her. She was a

French Grande Dame now.

She had gained significant working capital twenty-five million forwhich she was not accountable to another living human being. She hadgained an invincible power base at Altmann Industries. Although shewas still under certain checks and safeguards-from the Board of

Directors, yet she had access to all its information-gatheringservices, to its vast resources. As the head of such a colossus shehad the respect of and sympathy of the French Government, and as afringe benefit limited but significant access to their intelligencesystems. Then there was the Mossad connection: was she not the heirto

Aaron Altmann's position-" Peter suddenly remembered Magda speaking (ifher sources" and never identifying them. Was she really able to usethe French and Israeli intelligence as her own private agencies? Itseemed impossible. But he was learning swiftly that when dealingwith

Magda Altmann, anything was A possible as Kingston Parker had pointedout, she was not an ordinary person but Parker was speaking again.

"There was a period then of consolidation, a time when she gathered upthe reins that Aaron had dropped. There were changes amongst the topmanagement throughout Altmann Industries as she replaced those whomight oppose her with her own minions. A time of planning andorganizing, and then the first attempt to govern and prescribe thedestiny of nations. She chose the nation which most offended herpersonal view of the new world she was going to build. We will neverknow what made her choose the name of Caliph-"

"You have to be wrong." Peter squeezed his eyelids closed with thumband forefinger.

"You just don't know her."

"I don't think anybody knows her, Peter,"

Kingston Parker murmured, and fiddled with his pipe. "I'm sorry, weare going pretty fast here. Do you want to back up and ask anyquestions?"

"No, it's all right." Peter opened his eyes again. "Go on,

will you, Kingston?"

"One of the most important lessons that Baroness

Altmann had learned was the ease with which force and violence can beused, and their tremendous effect and profitability. Bearing thislesson in mind, the Baroness chose her first act as the new ruler ofmankind, and the choice was dictated by her early politicalconvictions, those convictions formed at her father's knee and at the

Communist Party meetings that she had attended as a precocious childin

Paris. There is a further suggestion that the choice was reinforced bythe Altmann banking corporation's interests in South African goldsales, for by this time the Baroness had tempered her socialist andcommunist leanings with a good healthy dollop of capitalisticself-interest. We can only guess, but if the scheme to bring out fortytons of gold and a black-based government-in-exile had succeeded,

it would not have taken very long for Caliph to gain control of bothgovernment and gold-" Parker shrugged]. We just cannot say howambitious, even grandiose, those plans were. But we can say that

Caliph, or the Baroness, recruited her team for the execution of theplan with the skill she brought to anything she handled." He brokeOff,

and smiled.

"I think all three of us remember the taking of Flight 070 vividlyenough not to have to go once more over the details.

Let me just remind you that it would have succeeded, in fact it hadactually succeeded, when Peter here made his unscheduled move thatbrought it all down. But it succeeded. That was the important thing.Caliph could afford to congratulate herself. Her information wasimpeccable.

She had chosen the right people for the job. She even knew the name ofthe officer who would command the antiterrorist force which would besent to intervene, and her psychology had been excellent. Theexecution of the four hostages had so shocked and numbed the oppositionthat they were powerless -the cup had been dashed from her lips by oneman alone. Inevitably her interest in that man was aroused. Possiblywith feminine intuition she was able to recognize in him the qualitieswhich could be turned to her own purpose. She had that indomitablestreak in her make-up that is able to recognize even in the dust ofdisaster that material for future victory-" Parker shifted his bulk,

and made a small deprecatory gesture. " - I hope this will not seemimmodest if I bring myself into the story at this stage. I had beengiven the hint that something like Caliph existed. In fact this maynot have been her first act after the killing of Aaron Altmann. Twoother successful kidnappings have her style one of them the OPEC

ministers in Vienna but we cannot be sure. I had been warned and I

was waiting for Caliph to surface. Dearly I would have loved a chanceto interrogate one of the hijackers-"

"They would have had nothing to tell you," Peter objected brusquely."They were merely pawns, like the doctor we captured in Ireland."Parker sighed. "Perhaps you are right, Peter.

But at the time I believed that our only lead to Caliph had beensevered. Later when the thing had been done and I had recovered fromthe shock of it, it suddenly occurred to me that the lead was stillthere stronger than ever. You were that lead, Peter. That was why I

recommended that your resignation be accepted. If you had notresigned, I would have forced you out anyway, but you played alongsuperbly by resigning-" He smiled again. I have never thanked you forthat."

"Don't mention it," said Peter grimly. "I like to be of service."

"And you were. Almost immediately you were on the loose, the

Baroness began making her approach. First she collected every knownfact about you. Somehow she even got a computer run on you. That's afact. An unauthorized run was made on the Central Intelligencecomputer four days after your resignation. She must have liked whatshe got, for there was the Narmco offer through conventional channels.Your refusal must have truly excited her interest, for she used herconnections to have herself invited down to Sir Steven's countryhouse." Parker chuckled. "My poor Peter, you found yourself withoutwarning in the clutches of one of history's most accomplishedenchantresses. I know enough about the lady to guess that her approachto you was very carefully calculated from the complete information thatshe had on you. She knew exactly what type of woman attracted you.Fortunately, she fitted the general physical description-"

"What is that?" Peter demanded. He was unaware that he had a specifictype of physical preference.

"Tall, slim and brunette," Parker told him promptly.

"Think about it," he invited. "All your women have been that." He wasright, of course, Peter realized. Hell, even at thirty-nine years ofage it was still possible to learn something about yourself.

"Frequently." Kingston smiled. "But it's not true, and compared toBaroness Altmann I am Father Christmas." And he became serious again."She wanted to find out what we at Atlas know about her activities. Sheknew by this stage that we had our suspicions, and through you she hadan inside ear. Of course, your value would deteriorate swiftly thelonger you were out of Thor but you could still be useful in a dozenother ways. As a bonus you could be expected to do a good job atNarmco. All her expectations were fulfilled, and exceeded. You eventhwarted an assassination attempt on her life-" Peter lifted an eyebrowin inquiry.

On the road to Rambouillet that night. Here we are only guessing,

but it's a pretty well-informed guess. The Russians had by this timedespaired of returning her to the fold. They had also suspicions as toher role as Caliph. They decided on a radical cure for their one-timestar agent. They either financed and organized the assassinationattempt themselves, or they tipped off Mossad that she had murdered

Aaron Altmann. I would be inclined to believe that they hired thekillers themselves because the Mossad usually do their own dirty work.Anyway, with NKVD or Mossad as paymasters, an ambush was set up on theRambouillet road and you drove into it. I know you don't likecoincidence, Peter, but I believe it was merely coincidence that youwere driving the Baroness's Maserati that night."

"That attempt severely alarmed the Baroness. She was not certain whohad been the author. I think she believed it was

Atlas Command, or at the very least that we had something to do withit. Almost immediately after that you were able to confirm ourinterest in her, and our knowledge that Caliph existed. I invited youto America, Colin brought you to meet me, and when you returned youeither told her about it, or in some way confirmed her suspicions of

Atlas Command and Kingston Parker. I am guessing again but how closeam I, Peter? Be honest." Peter stared at him, trying to keep his faceexpressionless while his mind raced. That was exactly how it hadhappened.

"We were all hunting Caliph. You saw no disloyalty in discussing itwith her." Parker prompted him gently, and Peter nodded once curtly.

"You believed that we had common goals," Parker went on with deepunderstanding and compassion. "You thought we were all huntingCaliph.

That is right."

"She knew I had been to America to see you before I

told her. I don't know how but she knew," Peter said stiffly. He feltlike a traitor.

"understand" Parker said simply. He reached across the table and onceagain placed his hand on Peter's shoulder.

He squeezed it while he looked into Peter's eyes, a gesture ofaffirmation and trust. Then he laid both hands on top of the table.

"She knew who was the hunter then, and she knew enough about me to knowI was dangerous. You were probably the only man in the world who couldreach me and do the job but you had to be motivated. She picked theone and only lever that would move you. She picked it unerringly justas she had done everything else. It would have worked in one strokeshe would have gotten rid of the hunter, and she would have acquired atop-class assassin.

When you had done the job, you would have belonged to Caliph for alltime. She would have used you to kill again and again, and each timeyou killed you would be more deeply enmeshed in her net. You reallywere a very valuable prize, Peter. Valuable enough for her to find itworthwhile to use her sexual wiles upon you." He saw the lumps ofclenched muscle at the corner of Peter's jaw, and the fire in hiseyes.

"You are also a very attractive man, and who knows but she felt theneed to combine business and pleasure? She is a lady with stronglydeveloped sexual appetites." Peter felt a violent urge to punch him inthe face. He needed some outlet for his rage. He felt belittled,

soiled and used.

"She was clever enough to realize that the sex was not enough of a holdto force you to commit murder. So she took your daughter, andimmediately had her mutilated just as at Johannesburg she had executedhostages without hesitation. The world must learn to fear Caliph."

There was no smile on Parker's face now.

"I truly believe that if you had not been able to deliver my head bythe deadline, she Would not have hesitated to carry on to the nextmutilation, and the one after that." Again Peter was assailed by awave of nausea as he remembered that shrivelled white lump of fleshwith the scarlet fingernail floating horribly in its tiny bottle.

"We were saved from that by the most incredible piece of luck.

The Provo informer," said Parker. "And again the understandableeagerness of the Russians to co-operate with us. It is a wonderfulopportunity for them to hand us their problem. They have let us havean almost full account of the lady and her history."

"But what are we going to do about it?" Colin Nobleasked. "Our handsare tied. Do we just have to wait for the next atrocity do we have tohope we will get another lucky break when Caliph kills the next Arabprince, or machine-guns the Shah's sister?"

"That will happen unless they push through the OPEC decision," Parkerpredicted levelly. "The lady has converted very easily to thecapitalist system now that she owns half of Europe's industry. Areduction in the Oil price would benefit her probably more than anyother individual on earth and at the same time it will also benefit thegreat bulk of humanity. How nicely that squares all her political andpersonal interests."

"But if she gets away with it-" Colin insisted, what will be her nextact of God?"

"Nobody can predict that," Parker murmered, and they both turned theirheads to look at Peter Stride.

He seemed to have aged twenty years. The lines at the corners of hismouth were cut in deeply like the erosion of weathered granite.

Only his eyes were blue and alive and fierce as those of a bird ofprey.

"I want you to believe what I am going to say now, Peter.

I have not told you all this to put pressure on you, Parker assured himquietly. "I have told you only what I believe is necessary for you toknow to protect yourself if you should elect to return to the lion'sden. I am not ordering you to do so. The risks involved cannot beoverestimated. With a lesser man I would term it suicidal.

However, now that you are forewarned, I believe you are the one man whocould take Caliph on her own ground. Please do not misunderstand whatI mean by that. I am not for a moment suggesting assassination.

In fact I expressly forbid you to even think in that direction. I

would not allow it, and if you acted independently, I would do myutmost to see that you were brought to justice. No, all I ask is thatyou keep close to Caliph and try to outguess her. Try to expose her sowe can lawfully act to take her out of action. I want you to put outof your mind the emotional issues those hostages at Johannesburg,

your own daughter try to forget them, Peter. Remember we are neitherjudge nor executioner-" Parker went on speaking quietly andinsistently, and Peter watched his lips with narrowed eyes, hardlylistening to the words, trying to think clearly and see his courseahead but his thoughts were a children's carousel, going around andaround with fuss and fury but returning with every revolution to theone central conclusion.

There was only one way to stop Caliph. The thought of attempting tobring someone like Baroness Magda Altmann to justice in a French courtwas laughable. Peter tried to force himself to believe that vengeancehad no part in his decisions, but he had lived too long with himself tobe able to pull off such a deceit. Yes, vengeance was part of it andhe trembled with the rage of remembrance, but it was not all of it. Hehad executed the German girl Ingrid, and Gilly

O'Shaughnessy and had not regretted the decision to do so. If it wasnecessary for them to die then surely Caliph deserved to die a thousandtimes more.

And there is only one person who can do it, he realized.

Her voice was quick and light and warm, with just that fascinatingtrace of accent; he remembered it so well, but had forgotten the effectit could have upon him. His heart pounded as though he had run a longway.

"Oh, Peter. It's so good to hear your voice. I have been so worried.Did you get my cable?"

"No, which cable?"

"When I heard that you had freed Melissa-Jane. I sent you a cable fromRome."

"I didn't get it but it doesn't matter."

"I sent it to you via Narmco in

Brussels."

"It's probably waiting for me there. I haven't been in touch."

"How is she, Peter?"

"She is fine now-" He found it strangely difficult to use her name, orany form of endearment. He hoped that the strain would not sound inhis voice. "But we went through a hell of a time."

"I know. I understand. I felt so helpless. I tried so hard, that'swhy I was out of contact, Peter but day after day there was no news."

"Peter, I have to see you. I've been too long without you but, (MonDieu, I have to be in Vienna tonight. Wait, let me see,

if I sent the Lear to fetch you now we could meet, even for an hour.

You could take the late flight from Orly to Brussels and I could go onto Vienna with the Lear please, Peter. I missed you so. We could havean hour together." the sub managers -of the airport met Peter as hedisembarked from the Lear and led him to one of the VIP lounges abovethe main concourse.

Magda Altmann came swiftly to meet him as he stepped into the loungeand he had forgotten how her presence could fill a room with light.

She wore a tailored jacket over a matching skirt, severe gun-metal greyand tremendously effective. She moved like a dancer on long gracefullegs which seemed to articulate from the narrow waist and

Peter felt awkward and heavy footed for the awareness that he was inthe presence of evil sat heavily upon him, weighting him down.

"Oh, Peter. What have they done to you?" she asked with quick concernflaring in those huge compassionate eyes.

She reached up to touch his cheek.

The strain and horror of the last days had drawn him out to the edge ofphysical endurance. His skin had a greyish, sickly tone against whichthe dark new beard darkening his jaws contrasted strongly. There weremore fine silver threads at his temples, gull's wings against thethicker darker waves of his hair, and his eyes were haunted. They hadsunk deeply into their sockets.

"Oh, darling, darling," she whispered, low enough so that the others inthe room could not hear her, and she reached up with her mouth forhis.

Peter had carefully schooled himself for this meeting. He knew howimportant it was that he should not in any way betray the knowledge hehad. Magda must never guess that he had found her out. That would bedeadly dangerous. He must act completely naturally. It was absolutelyvital, but there was just that instant's remembrance of his daughter'spale wasted fever-racked features, and then he stooped and took Magda'smouth.

He forced his mouth to soften, as hers was soft and warm and moist,tasting of ripe woman and crushed petals. He made his body welcomingas hers was melting and trusting against his and he thought he hadsucceeded completely until she broke from his embrace and leaned back,keeping those slim strong hips still pressed against his. She studiedhis face again, a swift probing, questioning gaze, and he saw it changedeep in her eyes. The flame going out of them leaving only a coldmerciless green light, like the beautiful spark in the depths of agreat emerald.

She had seen something; no there had been nothing to see. She hadsensed something in him, the new Awareness.

Of course, she would have been searching for it. She needed only thebarest confirmation the quirk of expression on his mouth, the newwariness in his eyes, the slight stiffness and reserve in his body allof which he thought he had been able to control perfectly.

"Oh, I am glad you are wearing blue now." She touched the lapel of hiscasual cashmere jacket. "It does suit you so well, my dear." He hadordered the jacket with her in mind, that was true but now there wassomething brittle in her manner.

It was as though she had withdrawn her true self, bringing down aninvisible barrier between them.

"Come." She turned away, leading him to the deep leather couch belowthe picture windows. Some airport official had been able to findflowers, yellow tulips, the first blooms of spring, and there was a barand coffee machine.

She sat beside him on the couch, but not touching him, and with a noddismissed her secretary. He moved across the room to join the twobodyguards, her grey wolves, and the three of them remained out ofearshot, murmuring quietly amongst themselves.

"Tell me, please, Peter." She was still watching him, but the coldgreen light in her eyes had been extinguished she was friendly andconcerned, listening with complete attention as he went step by stepover every detail of Melissa-Jane's kidnapping.

It was an old rule of his to tell the complete truth when it wouldserve and it served now, for Magda would know every detail. He toldher of Caliph's demand for Kingston Parker's life, and his ownresponse.

"I would have done it," he told her frankly, and she hugged her ownarms and shuddered once briefly.

"God, such evil can corrupt even the strongest and the best-" and nowthere was understanding softening her lips.

Peter went on to tell her of the lucky tip-off and the recovery of

Melissa-Jane. He went into details of the manner in which she had beenabused, of her terror and the psychological damage she had suffered andhe watched Magda's eyes carefully. He saw something there,

emphasized by the tiny frown that framed them. He knew that he couldnot expect feelings of guilt. Caliph would be far beyond such mundaneemotion but there was something there, not just stagey compassion.

"I had to stay with her. I think she needed those few days with me, heexplained.

"Yes. I am glad you did that, Peter." She nodded, and glanced at herwristwatch. "Oh, we have so little time left," she lamented.

"Let's have a glass of champagne. We have a little to celebrate. Atleast Melissa-Jane is alive, and she is young and resilient enough torecover completely." Peter eased the cork and when it popped he pouredcreaming pate yellow Dam Perignon into the flutes, and smiled at herover the glass as they saluted each other.

"It's so good to see you, Peter." She was truly a superb actress;

she said it with such innocent spontaneity that he felt a surge ofadmiration for her despite himself. He crushed it down and thoughtthat he could kill her now and here.

He did not really need a weapon. He could use his hands if he had to,but the Cobra parabellum was in the soft chamois leather holster underhis left armpit. He could kill her, and the two bodyguards across theroom would gun him down instantly. He might take one of them, but theother one would get him. They were top men. He had picked themhimself. They would get him.

"I'm sorry we will not be together for very long," he countered,

still smiling at her.

"Oh, cheri. I know, so am I." She touched his forearm, the firsttouch since the greeting embrace. "I wish it were different. Thereare so many things that we have to do, you and I, and we must forgiveeach other for them." Perhaps the words were meant to have a specialsignificance; there was a momentary flash of the warm green fire in hereyes, and something else perhaps a deep and unfathomable regret.

Then she sipped the wine, and lowered the long curled lashes across hereyes, shielding them from his scrutiny.

"I hope we will never have anything terrible to forgive. For the firsttime he faced the act of killing her. Before it had been somethingclinical and academic, and he had avoided considering the deed itself.But now he imagined the impact of an explosive Velex bullet into thatsmooth sweet flesh. His guts lurched, and for the first time hedoubted if he were capable of it.

"Oh, Peter, I hope so. More than anything in life, I hope that."

She lifted her lashes for a moment, and her eyes seemed to cling to hisfor an instant, pleading for something forgiveness, perhaps. If he didnot use the gun, then how would he do it, he wondered. Could he standthe feeling of cartilage and bone snapping and crackling under hisfingers, could he hold the blade of knife into her flat hard belly andfeel her fight it like a marlin fights the gleaming curved hook of thegaff?

The telephone on the bar buzzed, and the secretary picked it up on thesecond ring. He murmured into it.

"We will leave immediately, she told him, and then to Peter, "I amsorry."

"When will I see you?" he asked.

She shrugged, and a little shadow passed over her eyes.

"It is difficult. I am not sure I will telephone you. But now

I must go Peter. Adieu, my darling." When she had gone, Peter stoodat the windows overlooking the airfield. It was a glorious springafternoon, the early marguerites were blooming wild along the grassyverges of the main runways, like scattered gold sovereigns, and a flockof black birds hopped amongst them, probing and picking for insects,

completely undisturbed by the jet shriek of a departing Swissairflight.

Peter ran his mind swiftly over the meeting. Carefully identifying andisolating the exact moment when she had changed. When she had ceasedto be Magda Altmann and become Caliph.

There was no doubt left now. Had there ever been, he wondered, or hadit merely been his wish to find doubt?

Now he must harden himself to the act. It would be difficult,

much more difficult than he had believed possible.

Not once had they been alone, he realized then always the two greywolves had hovered around them. It was just another sign of her newwariness. He wondered if they would ever be alone together again nowthat she was alerted.

Then abruptly he realized that she had not said "Au revoir, my darling"but instead she had said "Adieu, MY darling'.

Was there a warning in that? A subtle hint of death for if Caliphsuspected him, he knew what her immediate reaction must be. Was shethreatening, or had she merely discarded him, as Kingston Parker hadwarned that she would?

He could not understand the desolate feeling that swamped him at thethought that he might never see her again except through thegunsight.

He stood staring out of the window, wondering how his career and hislife had begun to disintegrate about him since first he had heard thename Caliph.

A polite voice at his shoulder startled him and he turned to theairport sub-manager. "They are calling the KLM flight to Brussels now,General Stride." Peter roused himself with a sigh and picked up hisovercoat and the crocodile skin Hermes briefcase that had been a giftfrom the woman he must kill.

here was such a volume of correspondence and urgent business piling thelong desk in his new office that Peter had an excuse to put aside theplanning of the preemptive strike against Caliph.

To his mild surprise he found himself enjoying the jostle and haggle,the driving pace and the challenge of the market place. He enjoydpitting wits and judgement against other sharp and pointed minds, heenjoyed the human interaction and for the first time understood thefascination which this type of life had exerted over his brotherSteven.

"Three days after arriving back at his desk, the Iranian Air Force madetheir first order of the Narmco Kestrel missiles. One hundred andtwenty units, over a hundred and fifty million dollars" worth. It wasa good feeling, and could grow stronger, could finally becomeaddictive, he realized.

He had always looked upon money as rather a nuisance, those degradingand boring sessions with bank managers and clerks of the income taxdepartment, but now he realized that this was a different kind ofmoney. He had glimpsed the world in which

Caliph existed, and realized how once a human being became accustomedto manipulating this kind of money, then dreams of godlike power becamebelievable, capable of being transmuted into reality.

He could understand, but could never forgive, and so at last,

seven days after his return to Brussels, he forced himself to face upto what he must do.

Magda Altmann had withdrawn. She had made no further contact sincethat brief and unsatisfactory hour at Orly Airport.

He must go to her, he realized. He had lost his special insideposition which would have made the task easier.

He could still get close enough to kill her, of that he was certain.just as he had the opportunity to do so at Orly.

However, if he did it that way it would be suicidal. If he survivedthe swift retribution of her guards, there would be the slower butinexorable processes of the law. He knew without bothering to considerit too deeply that he would be unable to use the defence of the Caliphstory. No court would believe it. It would sound like the rantings ofa maniac without the support of Atlas or the Intelligence systems ofAmerica and Britain. That support would not be forthcoming of that hewas certain, If he killed Caliph they would be delighted, but theywould let him go to the guillotine without raising a voice in hisdefence. He could imagine the moral indignation of the civilized worldif they believed that an unorthodox organization such as Atlas wasemploying assassins to murder the prominent citizens of a foreign andfriendly nation.

No. He was on his own, completely. Parker had made that quite clear.And Peter realized that he did not want to die. He was not prepared tosacrifice his life to stop Caliph not unless there was no other way.There had to be another way, of course.

As he planned it he thought of the victim only as Caliph never as MagdaAltmann. That way he was able to bring a cold detachment to theproblem. The where, the when, and the how of it.

He had complicated the task by replanning her personal security,

and his major concern when he did so had been to make her movements asunpredictable as possible. Her social calendar was as closely guardedas a secret of state, there were never any -forward press reports ofattendance at public or state events.

If she were invited to dine at the tlysee Palace, the fact was reportedthe day after, not the day before but there were some annual eventsthat she would never miss.

Together they had discussed these weaknesses in her personalsecurity.

"Oh, Peter you cannot make a convict of me." She had laughed inprotest when he mentioned them. "I have so few real pleasures youwould not take them from me, would you?" The first seasonal showingof

Yves St. Laurent's collections, that she would never miss or the

Grande Semaine of the spring racing season which culminates with therunning of the Grand Prix de Paris at Longchamp. This year she hadhigh hopes of victory with her lovely and courageous bay mare, Ice

Leopard. She would be there. It was absolutely certain.

Peter began to draw up the list of possible killing grounds, and thencrossed off all but the most likely. The estate at La Pierre Benite,for instance. It had the advantage of being familiar ground for Peter.With a soldier's eye he had noticed fields of fire across the wideterraced lawns that dropped down to the lake; there were stances for asniper in the forests along the far edge of the lake, and in the littlewooded knoll to the north of the house which commanded the yard andstables. However, the estate was well guarded and even there thevictim's movements were unpredictable.

It would be possible to lie in ambush for the week when she was in

Rome or New York. Then again the escape route was highly risky,

through a sparsely populated area with only two access roads botheasily blocked by swift police action.

No, La Pierre Benite was crossed from the list.

In the end Peter was left with the two venues that had first sprung tomind the members' enclosure at Longchamp or Yves St.

Laurent's premises, at 46 Avenue Victor Hugo.

Both had the advantages of being public and crowded, circumstancesfavouring pickpockets and assassins, Peter thought wryly. Both hadmultiple escape routes, and crowds into which the fugitive couldblend.

There were good stances for a sniper in the grandstands and buildingsoverlooking the members" enclosure and the saddling paddock at

Longchamp or in the multi-storied buildings opposite No 46 in Avenue

Victor Hugo.

It would probably be necessary to rent an office suite in one of thebuildings with the attendant risks, even if he used a false name,

which put the probability slightly in favour of the racecourse.

However, Peter delayed the final decision until he had a chance toinspect each site critically.

There was one last advantage in doing it this way. It would be astand-off kill. He would be spared the harrowing moments of a kill atclose range, with handgun or knife or garrotte.

There would be the detached view of Caliph through the lens of atelescopic sight. The flattened perspectives and the altered colourbalances always made for a feeling of unreality. The interveningdistance obviated the need for confrontation. He would never have towatch the green light go out in those magnificent eyes, nor hear thelast exhalation of breath through the soft and perfectly sculpturedlips that had given him so much joy quickly he thrust those thoughtsaside. They weakened his resolve, even though the rage and the lustfor vengeance had not abated.

If he could get one of the Thor .222 sniper rifles it would be theperfect tool for this task. With the extra long, accurized barrelsdesigned for use with match grade ammunition and the new lasersights,

the weapon could throw a three-inch group at seven hundred yards.

The sniper had only to depress the button on the top of the stock withthe forefinger of his left hand. This activated the laser and the beamswept precisely down the projected flight of the bullet. It would showas a bright white coin the size of a silver dime. The sniper lookedfor the spot of light through the telescopic lens of the sight,

and the moment it was exactly on the target he pressed the trigger.

Even an unskilled marksman could hardly miss with this sight, in

Peter's hands it would be infallible and Colin Noble would give himone. Not only would Colin give him one, hell, he would probably haveit delivered with the compliments of the American Marine Corps by thesenior military attache of the U.S. Embassy in Paris.

Yet Peter found himself drawing out the moment of action, going overhis plans so often and with such a critical eye that he knew he wasprocrastinating.

The sixteenth day after his return to Brussels was a Friday.

Peter spent the morning on the NATO range north of the city at ademonstration of the new electronic shield that Narmco had developed tofoil the radar guidance on short-range anti-tank missiles. Then hehelicoptered back with the three Iranian officers who had attended thedemonstration and they lunched at tpaule de Mouton, a magnificent andleisurely meal. Peter still felt guilty spending three hours at thelunch table, so he worked until eight o'clock that evening, on themissile contracts.

It was long after dark when he left through the rear entrance,

taking all his usual precautions against the chance that Caliph had anassassin waiting for him in the dark streets. He never left at thesame time nor followed the same route, and this evening he bought theevening papers from a Marchand du tab ac in the Grand' Place andstopped to read them at one of the outdoor cafes overlooking thesquare.

He began with the English papers, and the headlines filled the pagefrom one side to the other; black and bold, they declared:

DROP IN PRICE OF CRUDE OIL

Peter sipped the whisky thoughtfully as he read the article through,turning to Page Six for the continuation.

Then he crumpled the newsprint in his lap, and stared at the passingjostle of spring tourists and early evening revellers.

Caliph had achieved her first international triumph.

From now on there would be no bounds to her ruthless rampage of powerand violence.

Peter knew he could delay no longer. He made the go decision then, andit was irrevocable. He would arrange to visit London on

Monday morning, there was excuse enough for that. He would ask Colinto meet him at the airport, and it would be necessary to tell him ofhis plan. He knew he could expect full support. Then he could move onto Paris for the final reconnaissance and choice of killing ground.

There was still two weeks until the showing of the spring collectionstwo weeks to plan it so carefully that there would be no chance offailure.

He felt suddenly exhausted, as though the effort of decision hadrequired the last of his reserves. So exhausted that the short walkback to the hotel seemed daunting. He ordered another whisky and drankit slowly before he could make the effort.

Narmco maintained two permanent suites at the Hilton for their seniorexecutives and other important visitors.

Peter had not yet made the effort of finding private accommodation inthe city, and he was living out of the smaller of the two suites.

It was merely a place to wash and sleep and leave his clothes, for hecould not shake off the feeling of impermanence, of swiftly changingcircumstances by which he found himself surrounded.

My books are in storage again, he thought with a little chill ofloneliness. His collection of rare and beautiful books had been instorage-for the greater part of his life, as he roamed wherever hisduty took him, living out of barracks and hotel rooms. His books werehis only possessions, and as he thought about them now he was filledwith an unaccustomed longing to have a base, a place that was his Ownand immediately he thrust it aside, smiling cynically at himself as hestrode through the streets of another foreign city, alone again.

It must be old age catching up with me, he decided.

There had never been time for loneliness before but now, but now?Unaccountably he remembered Magda Altmann coming into his arms andsaying quietly: "Oh, Peter, I have been alone for so long." The memorystopped him dead, and he stood in the light of one of the street lamps,a tall figure in a belted trench coat with a gaunt and haunted face.

A blonde girl with lewdly painted lips sauntered towards him down thesidewalk, pausing to murmur a proposition, and it brought Peter back tothe present.

"Merd" He shook his head in curt refusal and walked on.

As he passed the bookstall in the lobby of the Hilton, a rack ofmagazines caught his attention and he stopped at the shelf of women'smagazines. There would be announcements of the Paris haute coutureshowings soon, and he thumbed the pages of Vogue looking for mentionof

Yves St. Laurent's show instead he was shocked by the image of awoman's face that leapt out of the page at him.

In the photograph she was in a group of four people. The other womanwas the estranged wife of a pop singer, the sulky expression,

slightly skew eyes and bee-stung lips a landmark on the Parisian socialscene. Her partner was a freckled, boyish-faced American actor in alaid-back velvet suit with gold chains around his throat, more famousfor his sexual exploits than his film roles. They were not the type ofpersons with whom Magda Altmann habitually associated, but the manbeside her, on whose arm she leaned lightly, was much more her style.

He was fortyish, dark and handsome in a fleshy heavily built way, withdense wavy hair, and he exuded the special aura of power andconfimobile manufacturing complex.

dence that befitted the head of the biggest German auto The captionbelow the photograph had them attending the opening of an exclusive newParisian discotheque again this was not Magda Altmann's habitualterritory, but she was smiling brilliantly at the tall handsome German,so obviously enjoying herself that Peter felt a stinging shaft ofemotion thrust-up under his ribs.

Hatred or jealousy he was not certain and he slapped the magazineclosed and returned it to its rack.

In the impersonal antiseptically furnished suite he stripped andshowered, and then standing naked in the small lounge of the suite hepoured himself a whisky. It was his third that evening.

Since the kidnapping he had been drinking more than ever before in hislife, he realized. It could exert an insidious hold when a man waslonely and in grave doubt. He would have to begin watching it. Hetook a sip of the smoky amber liquid and turned to look at himself inthe mirror across the room.

Since he had been back in Brussels, he had worked out each day in thegymnasium at the NATO officers" club where he still had membership,

and his body was lean and hard with a belly like -a greyhound's onlythe face was ravaged by strain and worry and, it seemed, by some deepunutterable regret.

He turned back towards the bedroom of the suite, and the telephonerang.

"Stride," he said into the mouthpiece, standing still naked with theglass in his right hand.

"Please hold on, General Stride. We have an international call foryou." The delay seemed interminable with heavy buzzing and clicking onthe line, and the distant voices of other operators speaking bad

French or even worse English.

Then suddenly her voice, but faint and so far away that "Peter,

are you there?" it sounded like a whisper in a vast and empty hall.

"Magda?" He felt the shock of it, and his voice echoed back at himfrom the receiver; there was the click before she spoke again, thatswitch of carrier wave that told him they were on a radio telephonelink.

"I have to see you, Peter. I cannot go on like this. Will you come tome, please, Peter?"

"Where are you?"

"Les Neuf Poissons." Her voice was so faint, so distorted, that heasked her to repeat it.

"Les Neuf Poissons The Nine Fishes," she repeated.

"Will you come, Peter?"

"Are you crying?" he demanded, and the silence echoed and clicked andhummed so he thought they had lost contact, and he felt a flare ofalarm so his voice was harsh as he asked again. "Are you crying?"

"Yes." It was only a breath, he might have imagined it.

"Why?"

"Because I am sad and frightened, Peter. Because I am alone, Peter.Will you come, please will you come?"

"Yes," he said.

"How do I get there?"

"Ring Gaston at La Pierre Benite. He will arrange it. But comequickly, Peter. As quickly as you can."

"Yes.

As soon as I can but where is it?" He waited for her reply, but nowthe distances of the ether echoed with the sound of utter finality.

"Magda? Magda?" He found himself shouting desperately, but thesilence taunted him and reluctantly he pressed a finger down on thecradle of the telephone.

"Les Neuf Poissons," he repeated softly, and lifted the finger.

"Operator," he said, "please get me a call to France Rambouillet

47-87-47." And while he waited he was thinking swiftly.

This was what he had been subconsciously waiting for, he realized.

There was a feeling of inevitability to it, the wheel could only turnit could not roll sideways. This was what had to happen.

Caliph had no alternative. This was the summons to 3.38 execution. Hewas only surprised that it had not come sooner. He would see whyCaliph would have avoided the attempt in the cities of

Europe or England. One such attempt well planned and executed withgreat force had failed that night on the road to Rambouillet. It wouldhave been a warning to Caliph not to underestimate the victim's abilityto retaliate for the rest, the problems would have been almost the sameas those that Peter had faced when planning the strike against

Caliph herself.

The when and the where and the how and Caliph had the edge here.

She could summon him to the selected place but how incredibly skilfullyit had been done. As he waited for the call to Rambouillet,

Peter marvelled at the woman afresh. There seemed no bottom to herwell of talent and accomplishments despite himself, knowing full wellthat he was listening to a carefully rehearsed act, despite the factthat he knew her to be a ruthless and merciless killer, yet his hearthad twisted at the tones of despair in her voice, the muffled weepingperfectly done, so he had only just been able to identify it.

"This is the residence-of Baroness Altmann."

"Gaston?"

"Speaking,

sir."

"General Stride."

"Good evening, General. I was expecting your call. I spoke to theBaroness earlier. She asked me to arrange your passage to Les NeufPoissons. I have done so."

"Where is it, Gaston?"

"Les Neuf Poissons it's the Baroness's holiday island in the Iles sousle Vent it is necessary to take the UTA flight to Papeete-Faaa onTahiti where the Baroness's pilot will meet you. It's another hundredmiles to Les Neuf Poissons and unfortunately the airstrip is too shortto accommodate the Lear jet one has to use a smaller aircraft."

"When did the Baroness go to Les Neuf Poissons?"

"She left seven days ago, General, "Gaston answered, and immediatelywent on in the smooth, efficient secretarial voice to give Peter thedetails of the UTA flight. " The ticket will be held at the UTAcheck-in counter for you, General, and I have reserved a nonsmokingseat at the window."

"You think of everything. Thank you, Gaston." Peter replaced thereceiver, and found that his earlier exhaustion had left him he feltvital and charged with new energy. The elation of a trained soldierfacing the prospect of violent action, he wondered, or was it merelythe prospect of an end to the indecision and the fear of unknownthings? Soon, for good or for evil, it would be settled and hewelcomed that.

He went through into the bathroom and pitched the whisky that remainedin his glass into the hand basing

The UTA DC 10 made its final approach to Tahiti from the east,

slanting down the sky with the jagged peaks of Moorea under the portwing. Peter remembered the spectacularly riven mountains of Tahiti'stiny satellite island as the backdrop of the musical movie South

Pacific that had been filmed on location here. The volcanic rock wasblack and un weathered so that its crests were as sharp as sharks"

fangs.

They arrowed down across the narrow channel between the two islands,and the runway seemed to reach out an arm into the sea to welcome thebig silver machine.

The air was heavy and warm and redolent with the perfume of frangipaniblossoms, and there were luscious brown girls swinging and swayinggracefully in a dance of welcome. The islands reached out with almostoverpowering sweetness and friendliness but as Peter picked his singlelight bag out of the hold luggage and started for the exit doors,something unusual happened. One of the Polynesian customs officers atthe gate exchanged a quick word with his companion and then politelystepped into Peter's path.

"Good afternoon, the smile was big and friendly, but it did not stretchas far as the eyes. "Would you be kind enough to step this way." Thetwo customs men escorted Peter into the tiny screened office.

"Please open your bags, sir." Swiftly but thoroughly they went throughhis valise and crocodile-skin briefcase; one of them even used ameasuring stick to check both cases for a hidden compartment.

"I must congratulate you on your efficiency," said Peter, smiling also,but his voice tight and low.

"A random check, sir." The senior officer answered his smile.

"You were just unlucky to be the ten thousandth visitor. Now, sir, I

hope you won't object to a body search?"

"A body search?" Peter snapped, and would have protested further, butinstead he shrugged and raised both arms. "Go ahead." He couldimagine that Magda Altmann was as much the Grande Dame here as she wasin mother France. She owned the entire island group and it would needonly a nod to have an incoming visitor thoroughly searched for weaponsof any sort.

He could imagine also that Caliph would be very concerned that theintended victim should be suitably prepared for execution, lest heshould inadvertently become the executioner.

The one customs Officer checked his arms and flanks from armpit towaist, while the other knelt behind him and checked inside the outsideof his legs from crotch to ankle.

Peter had left the Cobra in the safe deposit box in the Hilton in

Brussels. He had anticipated something like this, it was the way

Caliph would work.

"Satisfied?" he asked.

"Thank you for your co-operation, sir. Have a lovely stay on ourisland." Magda's personal pilot was waiting for Peter in the mainconcourse, and hurried forward to shake his hand.

"I was worried that you were not on the flight."

"A small delay in customs," Peter explained.

"We should leave immediately, if we are to avoid a night landing on LesNeuf Poissons the strip is a little difficult." Magda's Gates

Lear was parked on the hardstand near the service area, and beside itthe Norman Britten Tri Islander looked small and ungainly, a stork-likeugly aircraft capable of the most amazing performance in short take-offand landing situations.

The body of the machine was already loaded with crates and cantons ofsupplies, everything from toilet rolls to Veuve Cliquot champagne,

all tied down under a wide meshed nylon net.

Peter took the right-hand seat, and the pilot started up and cleiredwith control, then to Peter: "One hour's flying. We will just makeit." The setting sun was behind them as they came in from the west andLes Neuf Poissons lay like a precious necklace of emeralds upon theblue velvet cushion of the ocean.

There were nine islands in the characteristic circular pattern ofvolcanic formation, and they enclosed a lagoon of water so limpid thatevery whorl and twist of the coral outcrops showed through as clearlyas if they were in air.

"The islands had a Polynesian name when the Baron purchased them backin 1945," the pilot explained in the clearly articulated ratherpedantic French of the Midi. "They were given by one of the old kingsas a gift to a missionary he favoured and the Baron purchased them fromhis widow.

The Baron could not pronounce the Polynesian name so he changed it-"The pilot chuckled. " The Baron was a man who faced the world on hisown terms." Seven of the islands were merely strips of sand andfringes of palms, but the two to the east were larger with hills ofvolcanic basalt glittering like the skin of a great reptile in the raysof the lowering sun.

As they turned onto their downwind leg, Peter had a view through thewindow at his elbow of a central building with its roof of palm thatchelegantly curved like the prow of a ship in the tradition of theislands, and around it half-hidden in luscious green gardens were othersmaller bungalows. Then they were over the lagoon and there were aclutter of small vessels around the long jetty which reached out intothe protected waters Hobie-cats with bare masts, a big powered schoonerwhich was probably used to ship the heavy stores such as dieseline downfrom Papeete, power boats for skiing and diving and fishing. One ofthem was out in the middle of the lagoon, tearing a snowy ostrichfeather of wake from the surface as it ran at speed; a tiny figuretowed on skis behind it lifted an arm and waved a greeting.

Peter thought it might be her, but at that moment the Tri-Islanderbanked steeply onto its base leg and he was left with only a view ofcumulus cloud bloodied by the setting sun.

The runway was short and narrow, hacked from the palm plantation on thestrip of level land between beach and hills. It was surfaced withcrushed coral. They made their final approach over a tall palisade ofpalm trees. Peter saw that the pilot had not exaggerated by calling ita little difficult. There was a spiteful crosswind rolling in andbreaking over the hills and it rocked the Tri-Islander's wingssickeningly. The pilot crabbed her in, heading half into the wind, andas he skimmed in over the palm tops, closed the throttles,

kicked her straight with the rudders, lowered a wing into the wind tohold her from drifting and dropped her neatly fifty feet over thethreshold, perfectly aligned with the short runway so she kissed andsat down solidly; instantly the pilot whipped the wheel to full lockinto the crosswind to prevent a ground loop and brought her up short.

Tarfait!" Peter grunted with involuntary admiration, and the manlooked slightly startled as though the feat deserved no specialmention. Baroness Altmann employed only the very best.

There was an electric golf cart driven by a young Polynesian girlwaiting at the end of the strip amongst the palm trees. She wore onlya pa reo wrapped around her body below the armpits, a single length ofcrimson and gold patterned cloth that fell to mid thigh. Her feet werebare, but around her pretty head she wore a crown of fresh flowers thema eva of the islands.

She drove the golf cart at a furious pace along narrow winding tracksthrough the gardens that were a rare collection of exotic plants,skilfully laid out, so that there was an exquisite Surprise around eachturn of the path.

His bungalow was above the beach with white sand below the verandah andthe ocean stretching to the horizon, secluded as though it were theonly building on the island. 4; Like a child the island girl took hishand, a gesture of perfect innocence, and led him through the bungalow,showing him the controls for the air-conditioning, lighting and thevideo screen,

explaining it all in lisping French patois, and giggling at hisexpression of pleasure.

There was a fully stocked bar and kitchenette, the small librarycontained all the current best-sellers, and the newspapers andmagazines were only a few days old. The offerings on the video screenincluded half a dozen recent successful features and Oscar winners.

"Hell, Robinson Crusoe should have landed here," Peter chuckled,

and the girl giggled and wriggled like a friendly little puppy insympathy.

She came to fetch him again two hours later, after he had showered andshaved and rested and changed into a light cotton tropical suit withopen shirt and sandals.

Again she held his hand and Peter sensed that if a man had taken thegesture as licence the girl would have been hurt and confused. By thehand she led him along a path that was demarcated by cunninglyconcealed glow lights, and the night was filled with the murmur of theocean and the gentle rustle and clatter of palm fronds moving in thewind.

Then they came to the long ship-roofed building he had seen from theair. There was soft music and laughter, but when he stepped into thelight the laughter stopped and half a dozen figures turned to himexpectantly.

Peter was not sure what he had expected, but it was not this gay,

social gathering, tanned men and women in expensive and elegant casualwear, holding tall frosted glasses filled with ice and fruit.

"Peter!" Magda Altmann broke from the group, and came to him with thatgliding hip-swinging walk.

She wore a soft, shimmering, wheaten-gold dress, held high at thethroat with a thin gold chain, but completely nude across the shouldersand down her back to within an inch of the cleft of her buttocks. Itwas breathtaking for her body was smooth as a rose petal and tanned tothe colour of new honey. The dark hair was twisted into a rope asthick as her wrist and piled up onto the top of her head, and she hadtouched her eyes with shadows so they were slanting and green andmysterious.

"Peter," she repeated, and kissed him lightly upon the lips, a brushlike a moth's wing, and her perfume touched him as softly, thefragrance of Quadrille flowering with the warmth and magic of herbody.

He felt his senses tilt. With all he knew of her, yet he was still nothardened to her physical presence.

She was cool and groomed and poised as she had ever been, there was notrace at all of the confusion and fearsome loneliness that he had heardin those muffled choked-down sobs from halfway across the world notuntil she stepped back to tilt her head on one side,

surveying him swiftly, smiling lightly.

"Oh, cheri, you are looking so much better. I was so worried about youwhen last I saw you." Only then he thought he was able to detect theshadows deep in her eyes, and the tightness at the corners of hermouth.

"And you are more beautiful than I remembered." It was true, so hecould say it without reserve, and she laughed, a single soft purr ofpleasure.

"You never said that before," she reminded him, but still her mannerwas brittle. Her show of affection and friendliness might haveconvinced him at another time, but not now. "And I am grateful." Nowshe took his arm, her fingers in the crook of his elbow, and she ledhim to the waiting group of guests as though she did not trust herselfto be alone with him another moment lest she reveal some forbidden partof herself.

There were three men and their wives: an American Democrat senator ofconsiderable political influence, a man with a magnificent head ofsilver hair, eyes like dead oysters, and a beautiful wife at leastthirty years his junior who looked at Peter the way a lion looks at agazelle and held his hand seconds longer than was necessary.

There was an Australian, heavy in the shoulder and big in the gut.

His skin was tanned leathery and his eyes were framed in a network ofwrinkles. They seemed to be staring through dust and sun glare atdistant horizons. He owned a quarter of the world's known uraniumreserves, and cattle stations whose area was twice the size of the

British Isles.

His wife was as tanned and her handshake was as firm as his.

The third man was a Spaniard whose family name was synonymous withsherry, an urbane and courtly Don, but with that fierce Moorish rake tohis thin features. Peter had read somewhere that the sherry and cognacageing in this man's cellars was valued at over five hundred milliondollars, and that formed only a small part of his family'sinvestments,

His wife was a darkly brooding Spanish beauty with an extraordinarystreak of chalk white through the peak of her otherwise black hair.

As soon as the group had assimilated Peter, the talk turned back easilyto the day's sport. The Australian had boated a huge black marlin thatmorning, a fish over one thousand pounds in weight and fifteen feetfrom the point of its bill to the tip of its deep sickle tail, and thecompany was elated.

Peter took little part in the conversation, but watched Magda

Altmann covertly. Yet she was fully aware of his scrutiny; he couldsee it in the way she held her hand, and the tension in her whole longslim body, but she laughed easily with the others and glanced at Peteronly once or twice, each time with a smile, but the shadows were in thegreen depths of her eyes.

Finally she clapped her hands. "Come, everybody, we are going to openthe feast." She linked arms with the senator and the Australian andled them down onto the beach.

Peter was left to cope with the senator's wife, and pushed her bosomagainst his upper arm and ran her tongue lightly over her lips as sheclung to him.

Two of the Polynesian servants were waiting beside a long mound ofwhite beach sand, and at Magda's signal they attacked it withshovels,

swiftly exposing a thick layer of seaweed and banana leaves from whichpoured columns of thick and fragrant steam. Below that was a rack ofbanyan wood and palm fronds which suspended the feast over anotherlayer of seaweed and live coals.

There were exclamations of delight as the aroma of chicken and fish andpork mingled with those of breadfruit and plantains and spices.

"Ah, a success," Magda declared gaily. "If any air is allowed to enterthe bake we lose it all. It burns, poof! And we are left with onlycharcoal." While they feasted and drank the talk and laughter becamelouder and less restrained, but Peter made the single drink last theevening and waited quietly not joining the conversation and ignoringthe blandishments of the senator's wife.

He was waiting for some indication of when and from what direction itwould come. Not here, he knew, not in this company. When it came itwould be swift and efficient as everything else that Caliph did.

And suddenly he wondered at his own conceit, that had allowed him towalk, entirely unarmed and unsupported, into the arena selected andprepared by his enemy. He knew his best defence was to strike first,

perhaps this very night if the opportunity offered. The sooner thesafer, he realized, and Magda smiled at him across the table set underthe palm trees and laden with enough food to feed fifty. When hesmiled back at her, she beckoned with a slight inclination of herhead,

and then while the men argued and bantered loudly, she murmured anapology to the women and slipped unobtrusively into the shadows.

Peter gave her a count of fifty before he followed her.

She was waiting along the beach. He saw the flash of her bare smoothback in the moonlight and he went forward to where she stood staringout across the wind-ruffled waters of the lagoon

He came up behind her, and she did not turn her head but her voice wasa whisper.

"I am so glad you came, Peter."

"I am so glad you asked me to." He touched the back of her neck, justbehind her ear.

The ear had an almost elfin point to it that he had not noticed beforeand the un swept hair at her nape was silken under his fingertips. Hecould just locate the axis, that delicate bone at the base of the skullwhich the hangman aims to crush with the drop. He could do it with thepressure of thumb and it would be as quick as the knot.

am so sorry about the others," she said. "But I am getting rid of themwith almost indecent haste, I'm afraid." She reached up over hershoulder and took his hand from her neck, and he did not resist.

Gently she spread the hand, and then pressed the open palm to hercheek. "They will leave early tomorrow. Pierre is flying them backto

Papeete, and then we will have Les Neuf Poissons to ourselves just youand I-" And then that husky little chuckle." And thirty-odd servants."He could understand exactly why it would be that way.

The only witnesses would be the faithful retainers of the Grande

Dame of the islands.

"Now we MUSt. go back. Unfortunately my guests are very important,

and I cannot ignore them longer but tomorrow will come. Too slowly forme, Peter but it will come." She turned in the circle of his arms andkissed him with a sudden startling ferocity, so his lips were crushedagainst his teeth, and then she broke from him and whispered close tohis ear.

"Whatever way it goes, Peter, we have had something of value, you andI. Perhaps the most precious thing I have had in my life. They cannever take that away from me." And then she was out of his arms withthat uncanny speed and grace of movement and gliding back along thepath towards the lights. He followed her slowly, confused anduncertain as to what she had meant by those last words, concludingfinally that the purpose had been exactly that to confuse and unbalancehim, and at that moment he sensed rather than heard movement behindhim, and instantly whirled and ducked.

The man was ten paces behind him, had come like a leopard,

silently from the cover of a fall of lianas and flowering creepersbeside the path; only some Minimal instinct had warned Peter and hisbody flowed into the fighting stance, balanced, strung like a nockedarrow, at once ready both to attack and meet attack.

"Good evening, General Stride." Peter only just managed to arresthimself, and he straightened slowly but with each hand still extendedstiffly at his side like the blade of a meat cleaver, and as lethal.

"Carl! he said. So the grey wolves had been close, within feet ofthem, guarding their mistress even in that intimate moment.

"I hope I did not alarm you," said the bodyguard and though

Peter could not see the man's expression, there was a faint mockery inhis voice, If there was confirmation needed, complete and final, thiswas it. Only Caliph would have need of a guard on a romanticassignment. Peter knew then beyond any doubt that either he or Magda

Altmann would be dead by sunset the following evening.

before going into the bungalow he made a stealthy -prowling circuit ofthe bushes and shrubs that surrounded it. He found nothing suspiciousbut in the interior the bed had been prepared and his shaving gearcleaned and neatly rearranged. His soiled clothing had been taken forcleaning and the other clothing had been pressed and rearranged moreneatly than his own unpacking. He could not therefore be certain thathis other possessions had not been searched, but it was safe to presumethey had.

Caliph would not neglect such an elementary precaution. " The locks ondoors and windows were inadequate, had probably not been used in years,for there had been no serpents in this paradise, not until recently. Sohe placed chairs and other obstacles in such a way that an intrudershould stumble over them in the dark, and then he rumpled the bed andarranged the pillows to look like a sleeping figure, but took a singleblanket to the long couch in the private lounge. He did not reallyexpect an attempt before the other guests left the island,

but if it came he would confuse Caliph's scenario as much aspossible.

He slept fitfully, jerking awake when a falling palm frond rattledacross the roof, or the moon threw picture shadows on the wall acrossthe room. just before dawn he fell into a deeper sleep and his dreamswere distorted and nonsensical, only the sharp clear image of

Melissa-Jane's terror-stricken face and her silent screams of horrorremained with him when he woke. The memory roused in him the cold lustfor vengeance which had abated a little in the weeks since her rescueand he felt reaffirmed, possessed of a steely purpose once more,

determined to resist the softening, fatal allure of Caliph.

He rose in the slippery pearl light of not yet dawn, and went down tothe beach. He swam out a mile beyond the reef, and had a long pullback against a rogue current, but he came ashore feeling good and hardand alert as he had not been in weeks.

All right, he thought grimly. Let it come. I'm as ready as I'll everbe.

There was a farewell breakfast for the departing guests, on the sugarysands of the beach that had been swept smooth by the night tide pinkLaurent Perrier champagne and hothouse strawberries flown in fromAuckland, New Zealand.

Magda Altmann wore brief green pants that showed off her long shapelylegs to perfection, and a matching "boob tube" across her small neatbreasts but her belly and shoulders and back were bare. It was thebody of a finely trained athlete, but drawn by a great artist.

She seemed unnaturally elated to Peter, her gaiety was slightly forcedand the low purring laughter just a little too ready and with asaw-edge to it. It was almost as though she had made some harddecision, and was steeling herself to carry it through. Peter thoughtof them as true opponents who had trained carefully for the comingconfiguration like prize fighters at the weigh-in.

After the breakfast they rode up in a cavalcade of electric carts tothe airfield. The senator, revved-up with pink champagne and sweatinglightly in the rising heat, gave Magda an over-affectionate farewell,but she skilfully avoided his hands and shunted him expertly into theTri Islander after the other passengers.

Pierre, Magda's pilot, stood on the brakes at the end of the runwaywhile he ran all three engines up to full power.

Then he let her go, and the moment she had speed he rotated her into anose-high obstacle-clearance attitude.

The Ungainly machine itimped into the sky and went over the palms atthe end of the short strip with five hundred feet to spare and

Magda turned to Peter ecstatically.

"I hardly slept last night, "she admitted, as she kissed him.

"Neither did I," Peter told her and then he added silently" for thesame reasons, I'm sure."

"I've planned a special day for us,"

she went on. "And I don't want to waste another minute of it." Thehead boatman had Magda's big forty-five-foot Chriscraft Fishermansingled up at the end of the jetty. It was a beautiful boat, with longlow attacking lines that made it seem to be flying even when on itsmooring lines, and loving care had very obviously been lavished uponit. The paintwork was unmarked and the stainless steel fittings werepolished to a mirror finish. The boatman beamed happily when Magdacommended him with a smile and a word.

"Tanks are full, Baronne. The scuba bottles are charged and the lightrods are rigged. The water-skis are in the main racks, and the chefcame down himself to check the icebox." However, his wide white smilefaded when he learned that Magda was taking the boat out alone.

"Don't you trust me? "she laughed.

"Oh, of course, Baronne-" But he could not hide his chagrin at havingto give over his charge even to such a distinguished captain.

He handled the lines himself, casting her off, and calling anxiouslast-minute advice to Magda as the gap between jetty and vesselopened.

"Ne t'kquiet pas!" she laughed at him, but he made a dejected figurestanding on the end of the jetty as Magda slowly opened up both dieselsand the Chris-craft came up on the plane and seemed almost to breakfree of the surface.

Her wake was scored deep and clean and straight through the gin-clearwater of the lagoon, a tribute to the design of her hull, and then itcurved out gracefully behind them as Magda made the turn between thechannel markers and lined her up for the passage through the reef, andout into the open Pacific.

"Where are we going?"

"There is an old Japanese aircraft carrier lying in a hundred feet ofwater beyond the reef. Yankee aircraft sank her back in "forty-four Itis a beautiful site for scuba diving. We will go there first-" How?Peter wondered. Perhaps one of the scuba bottles had been partiallyfilled with carbon monoxide gas. It was simply done, with a hose fromthe exhaust of the diesel generator:

simply pass the exhaust gases through a charcoal filter to remove thetaste and smell of unconsumed hydra carbons and the remaining carbonmonoxide gas would be undetectable. Fill the bottle to 30 atmospheresof pressure then top it up with clean air to its operating pressureof

I 10 atmospheres. It would be swift, but not too swift to alarm thevictim, a gentle long sleep. When the victim lost his mouthpiece, thebottles would purge themselves of any trace of the gas. That would bea good way to do it.

"After that we can go ashore on The des Oiseaux. Since Aaron stoppedthe islanders stealing the eggs to eat, we've got one of the biggestnesting colonies of terns and noddies and frigate birds in the

Southern Pacific-" Perhaps a spear gun That would be direct andeffective.

At short range, say two feet, even below the surface, the spear arrowwould go right through a human torso in between the shoulder blades andout through the breast bone.

And afterwards we can water-ski-" With an unsuspecting skier in thewater, awaiting the pick-up, what could be more effective than openingup both those tremendously powerful diesels to the gates and runningthe victim down? If the hull did not crush him, the twin screwsturning at 500 revolutions per minute would cut him up as neatly as aloaf of pre-sliced bread.

Peter found himself intrigued with the guessing-game.

He found himself regretting the fact that he would never know what sheintended, and he looked back from where they stood side by side on thetall flying bridge of the Chriscraft. The main island was loweringitself into the water already they were out of sight of anybody who didnot have a pair of powerful binoculars.

Beside him Magda pulled the retaining ribbon out of her hair, and shookloose a black rippling banner that streamed in the wind behind her.

"Let's do this for ever," she shouted above the wind and the boom ofthe engines.

"Sold to the lady with the sexy backside," Peter shouted back, and hehad to remind himself that she was one of the most carefully trainedkillers he would ever meet. He must not allow himself to be lulled bythe laughter and the beauty and he must not allow her to make the firststroke, His chances of surviving that were remote.

He glanced back again at the land. Any minute now, he thought,

and moved as though to glance over the side, getting slightly into herrear, but still in the periphery of her vision; she shifted slightlytowards him still smiling.

"At this state of the tide there are always amberjack in the channel. Ipromised the chef I would bring him a couple of them kicking fresh, sheexplained. "Won't you go down and get two of the light rods ready,cheri? The feather lures are in the forward starboard seat locker."

"Okay,"he nodded.

"I'll throttle back to trolling speed when I make the turn into thechannel put the lines in then."

OK."

" And then on an impulse. "But kiss me first." She held up her faceto him, and he wondered why he had said that. It was not to takefarewell of her. He was sure of that. It was to lull her just thatfraction, and yet as their lips met he felt the deep ache of regretthat he had controlled for so long and as her mouth spread slowly andmoistly open under his,

he felt as though his heart might break then. For a moment he feltthat he might die himself before he could do it; dark waves of despairpoured over him.

He slid his hand over her shoulder to the nape of her neck and her bodyflattened against his; he caressed her lightly, feeling for the place,and then settling thumb and forefinger a second, another second passed,and then she pulled him back softly.

"Hey, now!" she whispered huskily. "You stop that before I pile up onthe reef." He had not been able to do it with his bare hands. He justcould not do it like that but he had to do it quickly, very quickly.Every minute delayed now led him deeper and deeper into deadlydanger.

"Go!" she ordered, and struck him a playful blow on the chest.

"We've got time for that later all the time in the world. Let's savourit, every moment of it." He had not been able to do it, and he turnedaway. It was only as he went down the steel ladder into the cockpit ofthe Chris-craft that it suddenly occurred to him that during thelingering seconds of that kiss the fingers of her right hand had cuppedlovingly under his chin. She could have crushed his larynx,

paralysing him with a thumb driven up into the soft vulnerable arch ofhis throat at the first offensive pressure of his thumb andforefinger.

As his feet hit the deck of the cockpit another thought came to him.Her other hand had lain against his body, stroking him softly under theribs. That hand could have struck upwards and inwards to tear throughhis diaphragm his instincts must have warned him. She had been poisedfor the stroke, more so than he was; she had been inside the circle ofhis arms, inside his de fences waiting for him and he shivered brieflyin the hot morning sun at the realization of how close he had been todeath.

The realization turned instantly to something else, that slid down hisspine cold as water down a melting icicle. It was fear, not thecrippling fear of the craven, but fear that edged him and hirdened him.Next time he would not hesitate he could not hesitate.

He was instinctively carrying out her instructions as his mind raced tocatch up with the problem. He lifted the lid of the seat locker. Inthe custom-fitted interior were arranged trays of fishing gear, swivelsof brass and stainless steel in fifty different sizes;

sinkers shaped for every type of water and bottom; lures of plastic andfeathers, of enamel and bright metal; hooks for gigantic bill fish orfor fry and in a separate compartment in the side tray a bait knife.

The knife was a fifty-dollar Ninja with a lexan composition handle,cheque red and moulded for grip. The blade was seven inches of hollowground steel, three inches broad at the hilt and tapering to a stilettopoint. It was a brutal weapon, you could probably chop through an oaklog with it, as the makers advertised. Certainly it would enter humanflesh and go through bone as though it were Cheddar cheese.

It balanced beautifully in Peter's fist as he made one testing slashand return cut with it. The blade hissed in the air, and when hetested the edge too hurriedly it stung like a razor and left a thinline of bright blood across the ball of his thumb.

He kicked off his canvas sneakers, so the rubber soles did not squeakon the deck. He was dressed now in only a thin cotton singlet andboxer type swimming trunks, stripped down for action.

He went up the first three rungs of the ladder on bare silent feet, andlifted his eyes above the level of the flying bridge.

Magda Altmann stood at the controls of the Chris-craft, conning the bigvessel into the mouth of the channel, staring ahead in completeconcentration.

Her hair still flew in the wind, snaking and tangling into thickshimmering tresses. Her naked back was turned to him, the deeplydefined depression running down her spine and the crest of smooth hardmuscle rising on each side of it.

One leg of her pants had tucked up slightly exposing a half-moon ofround white buttock, and her legs were long and sup pleas a dancer's asshe balanced on the balls of her narrow feet, raising herself to seeahead over the bows.

Peter had been gone from the bridge for less than ten seconds, and shewas completely unaware, completely unsuspecting.

Peter did not make the same mistake again; he went up the ladder in asingle swift bound, and the bellow of the diesels covered any sound hemight have made.

With the knife you never take the chance of the point turning againstbone, if you have a choice of target.

Peter picked the small of the back, at the level of the kidneys wherethere was no bone to protect the body cavity.

It is essential to put the blade in with all possible power; thisdecreases the chance of bone-deflection and it peaks the paralysingeffect of impact-shock.

Peter put the full weight of his rush behind the thrust.

The paralysis is total if the blade is twisted a half-turn at the sameinstant that the blade socks in hilt-deep.

The muscles in Peter's right forearm were bunched in anticipation ofthe moment in which he would twist the blade viciously in her flesh,

quadrupling the size and the trauma of the wound.

The polished stainless steel fascia of the Chris-craft's control panelreflected a distorted image, like those funny mirrors of thefairground. Only at the moment that Peter had committed himselfcompletely, at the moment when he had thrown all his weight into thekilling stroke, did he realize with a sickening flash that she waswatching him in the polished steel control panel; she had been watchinghim from the moment he reappeared at the head of the ladder.

The curved Surface of the steel distorted] her face, so that itappeared to consist only of two enormous eyes; it distracted him inthat thousandth part of a second before the point of the blade enteredflesh. He did not see her move.

Blinding, numbing agony shot down his right flank and arm, from a pointin the hollow where his collar bone joined the upper arm, while at thesame instant something hit him on the inside of his forearm just belowthe elbow.

The knife stroke was flung outwards, passing an inch from her hip,

and the point of the blade crashed into the control panel in front ofher, scaring the metal with a deep bright scratch, but Peter's numbedfingers could not keep hold on the hilt. The weapon spun from hisgrip, ringing like a crystal wine glass as it struck the steel handrailand rebounded over the side of the bridge into the cockpit behindhim.

He realized that she had struck backwards at him, not turning to facehim but using only the reflection in the control panel to judge herblow with precision into the pressure point of his shoulder.

Now pain had crippled him and the natural reaction was to clutch at thesource of it. Instead with some reflexive instinct of survival heflung up his left hand to protect the side of his neck and the nextblow, also thrown backwards, felt as though it had come from afull-blooded swing of a baseball bat. He hardly saw it, it came sofast and hard there was just the flicker of movement across hisvision,

like the blur of a hummingbird's wing, and then the appalling force ofit crushing into the muscle of his forearm.

Had it taken him in the neck where it was aimed, it would have killedhim instantly; instead it paralysed his other arm, and she was turninginto him now effortlessly matching his bull strength with a combinationof speed and control.

He knew he must try and keep her close, smother her with his weight andsize and strength and he hooked at her with the clawed crippled fingersof his knife hand; they caught for a moment and then she jerked free.He had ripped away the flimsy strip of elasticized cloth that coveredher breasts, and she spun lightly under and out of the sweep of hisother arm as he. tried desperately to club her down with hisforearm.

He saw that her face was bone-white with the adrenalin overdosecoursing through her blood. Her lips were drawn back into a fixedsnarl of concentration and fury and her teeth seemed as sharp as thoseof a female leopard in a trap.

It was like fighting a leopard; she attacked him with an unrelentingsavagery and total lack of fear, no longer human, dedicated only to histotal destruction.

The long hair swirled about him, at one moment flicking like a whiplashinto his eyes to blind and unbalance him, and she weaved and dodged andstruck like a mongoose at the cobra, every movement flowing into thenext, her taunting red-tipped breasts dancing and jerking with eachblow she hurled at him.

With a jar of disbelief, Peter realized that she was beating him down.So far he had managed barely to survive each blow that he caught on armand shoulder; each time her bare feet crashed into his thigh or lowerbelly, each time her knees drove for his groin and jarred against thebone of his pelvis, he felt a little more of his strength dissipate,felt his reactions becoming more rubbery, just that instant slower. Hehad countered her attack with luck and instinct, but any instant shemust land solidly and drop him, for she was never still,

cutting him with hands and feet, keeping him off balance and he had nothurt her yet, had not touched her with any of his counter-strokes.

Still there was no feeling in his hands and fingers. He neededrespite, he needed a weapon, and he thought desperately of the knifethat had fallen into the cockpit behind him.

He gave ground to her next attack, and the bridge rail caught him inthe small of the back; at the same moment another of her strokes aimedat the soft of his throat deflected off his arm and crunched into hisnose. Instantly his eyes flooded with tears, and he felt the warm saltflood of blood over his upper lip and down the back of his throat; hedoubled over swiftly, then in the same movement he threw himselfbackwards, like a diver making a one-and-ahalf from the three-metreboard. The rail behind him helped his turn in the air, and he hadjudged it finely. He landed like a cat on both feet on the deck of thecockpit ten feet below the bridge, flexing at the knees to absorb theshock, and flicking the tears from his eyes, wringing his arms toreturn blood and feeling.

As he spun into a crouch he saw the knife. It had slid down thecockpit into the stern scuppers. He went for it.

The dive had taken her by surprise, just as she was poised for thefinal killing stroke to the back of his exposed neck, but she swirledto the head of the ladder and gathered herself while below her Peterlaunched himself across the cockpit for the big ugly Ninja knife.

She went for him feet first, dropping from ten feet, and the bare solesof her feet hit him together, the impetus of her falling body enhancedby the stabbing kick that she released at the moment that she hithim.

She caught him high in the back, hurling him forward so that the top ofhis head cracked into the bulkhead and darkness rustled through hishead. He felt his senses going, and it required all of his resolve toroll over and pull his knees swiftly to his chest, to guard himselfagainst the next killing stroke. He caught it on his shins, and onceagain launched himself after the knife. His fingers felt swollen andclumsy on the rough cheque red surface of the hilt, and at the momentthey touched he unwound his doubled-up body like a steel coil spring,

lashing out with both feet together.

It was a blind stroke, delivered in complete desperation.

It was the first solid blow he had landed; it caught her at the momentwhen she had already launched herself into her next onslaught;

both his feet slammed into her belly just below the ribs, and had theflesh there been soft or yielding it would have ended it; but she wasjust able to absorb the force of it with flat hard muscle though ithurled her backwards across the cockpit with the breath hissing fromher lungs and the long slim body doubling over in an agonizedconvulsion.

Peter realized that this was the only chance that he had had, and theonly one he would ever have yet his body was racked with such pain thathe could hardly drag himself up onto his elbow, and his vision swam andblurred with tears and blood and sweat.

He did not know how he had managed it, some supreme exertion of will,but he was on his feet with the knife in his hand, instinctivelyextending the blade down the back of his right thigh to keep itprotected until the moment it had to be used, crouching as he wentin,

left arm raised as a shield and knowing that now he had to end itswiftly, he could not go on longer. "this was his last effort.

Then she had a weapon also. Moving so swiftly that it had happenedbefore she was halfway across the cockpit, she had knocked theretaining clip off the boat hook that stood in the rack beside thecabin entrance.

It was eight feet of heavy varnished ash, with an ornate but viciousbrass head, and she cut at him with a low swinging warning blow to holdhim off while she forced air back into her empty lungs.

She was recovering swiftly, much more swiftly than Peter himself

He could see the cold killing light rekindle in her eyes. He knew hecould not go on much longer, he must risk it all in one last totaleffort.

He threw the knife, aiming at her head. The Ninja, not designed as athrowing weapon, rolled out of line of flight, hilt foremost but stillit forced her to lift the staff of the boat hook and deflect it.

It was the distraction he had wanted.

Peter used the momentum of his throw to go in under the swinging staff,and he hit her with his shoulder while her arms were raised.

Both of them reeled backwards into the cabin bulkhead, and

Peter groped desperately for a grip. He found it in the thick lustroustresses of her hair, and he wove his fingers into it.

She fought like a dying animal with strength and fury and courage thathe could never have believed possible, but now at last he could pit hissuperior weight and strength directly against hers.

He smothered her against his chest, trapping one arm between theirbodies, while he was able to pull her head backwards at an impossibleangle, exposing the long smooth curve of her throat.

And then he scissored his thighs across her, so that those lethal feetand legs were unable to reach him, and they crashed over onto thedeck.

She managed with an incredible effort to swing her weight so that shelanded on top of him, her breasts sliding against his chest,

lubricated by sweat and blood that dribbled down from his nose, but

Peter heaved all his remaining strength into his shoulders and rolledback on top of her.

They were locked breast to chest and groin to groin in some bizarreparody of the act of love, only the stock of the boat hook betweenthem.

Peter twisted down hard on the rope of hair in his left hand,

pinning her head to the deck so that her eyes were only six inches fromhis and blood from his nose and mouth dripped onto her upturned face.

Neither of them had spoken a word, the only sound the hiss and suck oflaboured breathing, the explosive grunt of a blow delivered or theinvoluntary gasp of pain as it landed.

They glared into each other's eyes, and at that moment neither of themwas a human being, they were two animals fighting to the death,

and Peter shifted quickly so the stock of the boat hook fell across herunprotected throat. She had not been ready for that and she ducked herchin too late.

Peter knew he could not dare to release his grip on her hair, nor thearm around her body, nor the scissors that enfolded her legs. He-could feel the steely tension of her whole body, that required all hisown strength to hold. If he relaxed his grip in the slightest, shewould twist away, and he would not have the strength to go on afterthat.

With the elbow of the hand that held her hair, he began to bear down onthe ash staff of the boat hook, slowly crushing down into her throat.

She knew it was over then, but still she fought on. As she weakenedPeter was able to transfer more and more of his weight onto the stockof the boat hook. Slowly blood suffused her face, turning it darkmottled plum, her lips quivered with each painful rasping breath and alittle frothy saliva broke from the corners of her mouth and ran backdown her cheek.

Watching her die was the most horrible thing Peter had ever had to do.He shifted cautiously, going for the few extra ounces of weight whichwould force the heavy wooden Stock down that last eighth of an inch andcrush in her throat, and she recognized the moment in her eyes.

She spoke for the first time. It was a croak slurred through swollenand gaping lips.

"They warned me." He thought he had mis-heard her, and he checked thefinal thrust downwards which would pinch out the last spark of life. "Icouldn't believe it." The faintest whisper, only just intelligible."Not you." Then the last resistance went out of her, her body relaxed,the complete acceptance of death at last. The fierce green light wentout in her eyes, replaced at the very end with a sadness so heavy thatit seemed to acknowledge the ultimate betrayal of all goodness andtrust.

Peter could not force himself to make the final thrust downwards thatwould end it. He rolled off her and flung the heavy wooden stockacross the cockpit. It crashed into the bulkhead and he sobbed as hecrawled painfully across the deck, turning his back to hercompletely,

knowing that she was still alive and therefore still as dangerous asshe had ever been yet no longer caring. He had gone as far as he couldgo. It didn't matter any more if she killed him; something in him evenwelcomed the prospect of release.

He reached the rail and tried to drag himself onto his feet,

expecting at any moment the killing blow into the nape of his neck asshe attacked him again.

It did not come, and he managed to get onto his knees, but his wholebody was trembling violently so that his teeth chattered in his jawsand every strained and bnlised tendon and muscle screamed for surcease.Let her kill me, he thought, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters now.

Half supporting himself on the rail, he turned slowly and his visionswam and flickered with patches of darkness and little shooting starsof crimson and white flame. Through the swirl of senses at the end oftheir usefulness, he saw that she was kneeling in the centre of thecockpit, facing him.

Her naked torso was splattered and smeared with his blood and thesmooth tanned skin oiled with slippery sweat of near death. Her facewas still and swollen and inflamed, wreathed in a great tangle ofmatted and disordered hair.

There was a flaming livid weal across her throat where the stock hadcrushed her, and as she fought for breath her small pert breasts liftedand dropped to the painful pumping of her chest.

They stared at each other, far beyond speech, driven to the veryfrontiers of their existence.

She shook her head, as though trying desperately to deny the horror ofit all, and at last she tried to speak; no sound came and she lickedher lips and lifted one slim hand to her throat as though to ease thepain of it.

She tried again, and this time she managed one word.

"Why?" He could not reply for fully half a minute, his own throatseemed to have closed, grown together like an old wound.

He knew that he had failed in his duty and yet he could not yet hatehimself for it. He formed the words in his own mind, as though he weretrying to speak a foreign language, and when he spoke his voice was astranger's broken and coarsened by the knowledge of failure.

"I couldn't do it," he said.

She shook her head again, and tried to frame the next question.

But she could not articulate it, only one word came out, the same wordagain.

"Why ?" And he had no answer for her.

She stared at him, then slowly her eyes filled with tears; they randown her cheeks and hung from her chin like early morning dew on theleaf of the vine.

Slowly she pitched forward onto the deck, and for many seconds he didnot have the strength to go to her, and then he lurched across the deckand dropped to his knees beside her; he lifted her upper body in hisarms suddenly terrified that he had succeeded after all, that she wasdead.

His relief soared above the pain of his battered body as he felt herbreathing still sawing through her damaged throat, and as her headrolled against his shoulder he realized that fat oily tears stillwelled out from between her closed eyelids.

He began to rock her like a child in his arms, a completely uselessgesture, and only then did her words begin to make any sense to him.

"They warned me, "she had whispered.

"I couldn't believe it," she had said.

"Not you." He knew then that had she not spoken he would have gonethrough with it. He would have killed her and weighted her body anddropped it beyond the 1,000-fathom line but the words, although theydid not yet make sense, had reached deep into some recess of hismind.

She stiffed against his chest. She said something, it sounded like hisname. It roused him to reality. The big Chris-craft was still roaringblindly through the channels and reefs of the outer passage.

He laid her back gently on the deck, and scrambled up the ladder to theflying bridge. The whole of that horrific conflict had taken less thana minute, from his knife-stroke to her collapse under him.

The steering of the Chris-craft was locked into the automatic pilot andthe vessel had run straight out through the channel into the open sea.It reinforced his knowledge that she had been ready for his attack. Shehad been acting that total concentration in steering the vessel, luringhim into the attack while the Chris-craft was on automatic pilot andshe was ready to throw that backward blow at him.

It did not make sense, not yet. All that he knew was that he had madesome terrible miscalculation. He threw out the switch of the automaticsteering, and shut down both throttles to the idle position beforedisengaging the main drive. The diesels bur bled softly, and sherounded up gently into the wind and wallowed beam-on to the short steepblue seas of the open ocean.

Peter took one glance back over the stern. The islands were just a lowdark smudge on the horizon, and then he was stumbling back to theladder.

Magda had dragged herself into a half sit ting: position, but sherecoiled swiftly as he came to her an this time he saw fear pass likecloud shadow across her eyes.

"It's all right," he told her, his own voice still ragged. Her fearoffended him deeply. He did not want her ever to be afraid of himagain.

He took her up in his arms, and her body was stiff with uncertainty,like that of a cat picked up against its will, but too sick toresist.

"It's all right," he repeated awkwardly, and carried her down into thesaloon of the Chris-craft. His own body felt battered as though hisvery bones were bruised and cracked, but he handled her so tenderlythat slowly the resistance went out of her and she melted againsthim.

He lowered her onto the leather padded bench, but when he tried tostraighten up she slid one arm around his neck and restrained him,

clinging to him.

"I left the knife there," she whispered huskily. "It was a test."

"Let me get the medicine chest. "He tried to pull away.

"No." She shook her head and winced at the pain in her throat.

Don't go away, Peter. Stay with me. I am so afraid.

I was going to kill you if you took the knife. I nearly did.

Oh, Peter, what is happening to us, are we both going mad?" She heldhim desperately and he sank to his knees on the deck and bowed overher.

"Yes," he answered her, holding her to his chest. "Yes, we must begoing mad. I don't understand myself or any of it any more."

"Why did you have to take the knife, Peter? Please you must tell me.Don't lie, tell me the truth, I have to know why."

"Because of Melissa-Jane because of what you had done to her." He felther jerk in his arms as though he had struck her again. She tried tospeak but now her voice was only a croak of despair, and Peter went onto explain it to her.

"When I discovered that you were Caliph, I had to kill you." Sheseemed to be gathering herself for some major effort, but then when shespoke it was still in that scratchy broken whisper. "Why did you stopyourself, Peter?"

"Because-" He knew the reason then. Because I

suddenly I knew that I loved you. Nothing else counted." She gaspedand was silent again for nearly a minute.

"But Peter, you tried to kill me. That was the test with the knife.You are Caliph." On Magda's direction Peter took the

Chris craft in through a narrow passage in the coral reef thatsurrounded The des Oiseaux, while the seabirds wheeled about them in araucous cloud, filling the air with their wingbeats.

He anchored in five fathoms in the protected lee, and then called themain island on the VHF radio, speaking to the head boatman.

"The Baronne has decided to sleep on board overnight," he explained."Don't worry about us." When he went down to the saloon again Magdahad recovered sufficiently to be sitting up. She had pulled on one ofthe terry to welling track suits from the clothes locker, and she hadwound a clean towel around her throat to protect it and to hide thefierce fresh bruise that was already staining her skin like thesqueezed juice of an overripe plum.

Peter found the medicine box in a locker above the toilet bowl of theheads, and she protested when he brought two Temprapain capsules forthe pain, and four tablets of Brufin for the swelling and bruising ofher throat and body.

"Take them," he commanded and held the glass while she did so.

Then he carefully unwrapped the towel from her throat and lightlyrubbed a creamy salve into the bruise with his fingertips.

"That feels better already," she whispered, but now she had lost hervoice almost entirely.

"Let's have a look at your stomach." He pushed her down gently on herback on the long padded bench and unzipped the top of the to wellingsuit to the waist. The bruise where he had kicked her had spread fromjust below her small pale breasts to the tiny sculpted navel in theflat hard plane of her belly; again he massaged the soothing cream intoher skin and she sighed and murmured with the comfort of it.

When he finished she was able to hobble, still painfully doubled over,to the heads. She locked herself in for fifteen minutes while

Peter tended his own injuries, and when she emerged again she hadbathed her face and combed out her hair.

He poured two crystal old-fashioned glasses half full of Jack

Daniel's Bourbon and he handed one to her as she sank onto the paddedbench beside him. "Drink it. For your throat," he ordered, and shedrank and gasped at the sting of the liquor and set the glass aside.

"And you, Peter?" she husked with sudden concern. "Are you allright?" Just one thing," he said. "I'd hate you to get really mad atme." Then he smiled, and she started to chuckle but choked on the painand ended up clinging to him.

"When can we talk?" he asked her gently. "We have to talk thisout."

"Yes, I know, but not yet, Peter. Just hold me for a while." And hewas surprised at the comfort that it afforded him.

The warm woman shape pressed to him seemed to ease the pain of body andof mind, and he stroked her hair as she nuzzled softly against histhroat.

"You said you loved me, "she murmured at last, making it a question.Seeking reassurance, as lovers always must.

"Yes. I love you. I think I knew it all along, but when I

learned that you were Caliph, I had to bury it deep. It was only thereat the end I had to admit to myself."

""I'm glad," she said simply.

"Because you see I love you also. I thought I would never be able tolove. I had despaired of it, Peter. Until you. And then they told meyou would kill me. That you were Caliph. I thought then I would diehaving found you and then lost you. It was too cruel, Peter. I had togive you the chance to prove it wasn't true!"

"Don't talk," he commanded. "Just lie there and listen.

There is nothing wrong with my voice, so I will tell it first.

The way it was with me, and how I knew you were Caliph." And he toldit to her, holding her to him and speaking softly, steadily. The onlyother sounds in the cabin were the slap of the wavelets against thehull and the subdued hum of the air-conditioning unit.

"You know everything up to the day Melissa-Jane was taken, all of it. Itold you all of it, without reservation and without lying, not once-"He started, and then he went on to tell her in detail of the hunt forMelissa-Jane.

I think something must have snapped in my mind during those days.

I was ready to believe anything, to try anything to get her back. I

would wake up in the night and go to the toilet and vomit with thethought of her hand in a glass jar." He told her how he had planned tokill Kingston Parker to meet Caliph's demands, exactly how he intendeddoing it, the detailed how and where, and she shuddered against him.

"The power to corrupt even the best," she whispered.

"Don't talk-" he admonished her, and went on to tell her of the tip-offthat had led them at last to the Old Manse in Laragh.

"When I saw my daughter like that, I lost what little was left of myreason. When I held her and felt the fever and heard her scream withlingering terror, I would have killed-" He broke off and they weresilent until she protested with a small gasp and he realized that hishand had closed on her upper arm and his fingers were biting into herflesh with the force of his memories.

"I'm sorry." He relaxed his grip, and lifted the hand to tuch hercheek. "Then they told me about you." to "Who?" she whispered "The

Atlas Command."

"Parker?"

"Yes, and Colin Noble."

"What did they tell you?"

"They told me how your father brought you to Paris when you were achild. They told me that even then you were bright and pretty andspecial-" He began to recite it for her. " When your father waskilled-" and she moved restlessly against his chest as he said it youwent to live with foster parents, all of them members of the party, andin the end you were so special that they sent somebody to take you backto Poland. Somebody who posed as your uncle-"

"I believed he was-" She nodded. For ten years I believed it. He usedto write to me-" She stopped herself with an effort, was silent amoment and then, "he was all I ever had after Papa."

"You were selected to go to Odessa," Peter went on, and felt her govery still in his arms, so he repeated it with the harshnessunconcealed in his tone, to the special school in

Odessa."

"You know about Odessa?" she whispered. "Or you think you know butnobody who has never been there could ever really know."

"I know they taught you to-" He paused, imagining again a beautifulyoung girl in a special room overlooking the Black Sea, learning to useher body to trap and beguile a man, any man. They taught you manythings."

He could not make the accusation.

"Yes,"she murmured. "Many, many things."

"Like how to kill a man with your hands."

"I think that subconsciously I could not bring myself to kill you,Peter. God knows you should not have survived. I loved you, eventhough I hated you for betraying me, I could not really do it-" Shesighed again, a broken gusty sound.

And when I thought that you were going to kill me it was almost arelief. I was ready to accept that, against living on without the lovethat I thought I had found."

"You talk too much." He stopped her.

"You'll damage your throat further." He touched her lips with hisfingers, to silence her, and then went on. "And at Odessa you becameone of the chosen, one of the elite."

"It was like entering the church,

a beautiful mystic thing-" she whispered. "I cannot explain it. I

would have done everything or anything for the State, for what I knewwas right for "Mother Russia"."

"All of this is true?" He marvelled that she made no effort to denyit.

"All of it," she nodded painfully. "I will never lie to you

Peter. I swear it."

"Then they sent you back to France to Paris?" he asked, and shenodded.

"You did your job, even better than they had expected you to do it. Youwere the best, the very best. No man could resist you." She did notanswer, but she did not lower her eyes from his. It was not a defiancebut merely a total acceptance of what he was saying.

"There were men. Rich and powerful men-" His voice was bitter now. Hecould not help himself. "Many, many men. Nobody knows how many, andfrom each of them you gathered harvest."

"Poor Peter," she whispered. "Have you tortured yourself with that?"

"It helped me to hate you, "he said simply.

"Yes, I understand that. There is nothing that I can give you for yourcomfort except this. I never loved a man until I met you." She waskeeping her word. There were no more lies nor deceptions now. He wascertain of it.

"Then they decided that you could be used to take over control of

Aaron Altmann and his Empire-"

"No," she whispered, shaking her head.

"I decided on Aaron. He had been the only one man who I had not beenable to-" Her voice pinched out and she took a sip of the bourbon andlet it trickle slowly down her throat before she went on. "Hefascinated me. I had never met a man like that before. So strong,

such raw power."

"All right," Peter agreed. "You might even have grown tired of theother role by then-"

"It's hard work being a courtesan--2

She smiled for the first time since he had begun speaking, but it was asad self mocking smile. "You went about it exactly the right way.First you made yourself indispensable to him. Already he was a sickman, beginning to need a crutch, somebody he could trust entirely.

You gave him that-" She said nothing, but memories passed across hereyes, changing the green shadows like sunlight through a deep stillpool.

And when he trusted you there was nothing you could not supply to yourmasters. Your value had increased a hundredfold." He went on talkingquietly while outside the day died in a fury of crimsons and royalpurples, slowly altering the light in the cabin and dimming it down sothat her face was all that existed in the soft gloom. A pale intenseexpression, listening quietly to the accusations, to the recitation ofbetrayals and deceits. Only occasionally she made a little gesture Ofdenial, a shake of her head or the pressure of fingers on his arms.Sometimes she closed her eyes briefly as though she could not acceptsome particularly cruel memory, and once or twice an exclamation waswrung from her in that strained and tortured whisper.

"Oh God, Peter! It's true!" He told her how she had graduallydeveloped the taste for the power she was able to wield as Aaron

Altmann's wife, and how that flourished as Aaron's strength declined.

How she at last even opposed the Baron on some issues.

"Like that of supplying arms to the South African Government,"

Peter said, and she nodded and made one of her rare comments.

"Yes. We argued. That was one of the few times we argued." And shesmiled softly, as though at a private memory that she could not shareeven with him.

He told her how the taste of power and the trappings of power graduallyeroded her commitment to her earlier political ideals, how her mastersslowly realized they were losing their hold over her and of thepressures they attempted to apply to force her back into the fold.

"But you were too powerful now to respond to the usual pressures.

You had even succeeded in penetrating Aaron's Mossad connections,

and had that protection."

"This is incredible!" she whispered. "It's so close, so very closethat it is the truth." He waited for her to elaborate, but instead shemotioned him to continue.

"When they threatened to expose you to the Baron as a communist agent,you had no choice but to get rid of him and you did it in such a waythat you not only got rid of the threat to your existence but you alsoachieved control of Altmann Industries, and to put the cherry on thetop of the pie you got yourself twenty-five million in operatingcapital.

You arranged the abduction and killing of Aaron Altmann, you paidyourself the twenty-five million and personally supervised itstransfer, probably to a numbered account in Switzerland-"

"Oh God,

Peter!" she whispered, and in the dark of the cabin her eyes werefathomless and huge as the empty cavities of a skull.

"Is it true?" Peter asked for confirmation for the first time.

"It's too horrible. Go on please."

"It worked so well that it opened up a new world of possibilities foryou. just about this time you truly became Caliph. The taking ofFlight 070 was possibly not the first stroke after the kidnapping ofAaron Altmann there may have been others. Vienna and the OPECministers, the Red Brigade activities in Rome but 070 was the firsttime you used the name Caliph. It worked, except for the derelictionof duty by a subordinate officer."

He indicated himself. "That was all that stopped it and that was how

I attracted your attention originally." Now it was almost totally darkin the cabin and Magda W

reached across and switched on the reading light beside them,

adjusting the rheostat down to a soft golden glow. In its light shestudied his face seriously as he went on.

By this time you were aware through your special sources, probably theMossad connection and almost certainly through the French SID, thatsomebody was onto Caliph. That somebody turned out to be Kingston

Parker and his Atlas organization, and I was the ideal person tofirstly confirm that Parker was the hunter and secondly, to assassinatehim. I had the special training and talents for the job, I

could get close to him without arousing his suspicions, and I neededonly to be sufficiently motivated-"

"No," she whispered, unable to take her eyes from his face.

"It holds together," he said. "All of it." And she had no reply.

"When I received Melissa-Jane's finger, I was ready for anything--"

"I think I am going to be sick."

"I'm sorry." He gave her the glass and she drank the shot of darkliquor it contained,

gagging a little on it. Then she sat for a few moments with her eyesclosed and her hand on her bruised throat.

"All right? "he asked at last.

"Yes. All right now. Go on."

"It worked perfectly except for the tip-off to the hideout in Ireland.But nobody could have foreseen that, not even Caliph."

"But there was no proof!" she protested. "It was all conjecture. Noproof that I was Caliph."

"There was," he told her quietly. "O'Shaughnessy, the head of the gangthat kidnapped

Melissa-Jane, made two telephone calls. They were traced to

Rambouillet 47-87-47." She stared at him wordlessly.

"He was reporting to his master to Caliph, you see." And he waited forher reply. There was none, so after a minute of silence he went on totell her the arrangements he had made for her execution the sites hehad chosen at Longchamp race course and in the Avenue

Victor Hugo, and she shuddered as though she had felt the brush of theblack angels" wings across her skin.

"I would have been there," she admitted. "You chose the two bestsites. Yves has arranged a private showing for me on the sixth of nextmonth. I would have gone to it." Then you saved me the trouble. Youinvited me here.

I knew that it was an invitation to die, that you knew I had becomeaware, that I had learned you were Caliph. I saw it in your eyesduring that meeting at Orly Airport, I saw it proven by the way youwere suddenly avoiding me, the way you were giving me no opportunity todo the job I had to do."

"Go on."

"You had me searched when I landed at Tahiti-Faaa." She nodded.

"You had the grey wolves search my room again last night, and you setit up for today. I knew I had to strike first, and I did."

"Yes"

she murmured. "You did." And rubbed her throat again.

He went to recharge the glasses from the concealed liquor cabinetbehind the bulkhead, and came back to sit beside her.

She shifted slightly, moving inside the circle of his arm, and he heldher in silence. The telling of it had exhausted him, and his bodyached relentlessly, but he was glad it was said, somehow it was likelancing a malignant abscess the release of poisons was a relief, andnow the healing process could begin.

He could feel his own exhaustion echoed in the slim body that droopedagainst him, but he sensed that hers was deeper, she had taken too muchalready and when he lifted her in his arms again she made no protest,and he carried her like a sleeping child through to the master cabinand laid her on the bunk.

He found pillows and a blanket in the locker below. He slid into thebunk with her, under the single blanket, and she fitted neatly into thecurve of his body, pressing gently against him, her back against hischest, her hard round buttocks against the front of his thighs, and herhead pillowed into the crook of his arm, while with his other arm hecuddled her close and his hand naturally cupped one of her breasts.

They fell asleep like that, pressing closely, and when he rolled overshe moved without waking, reversing their positions, moulding herselfto his back and pressing her face into the nape of his neck, claspinghim with one arm and with a leg thrown over his lower body as though toenfold him completely.

Once he woke and she was gone, and the strength of his alarm surprisedhim, a hundred new doubts and fears assailed him from the darkness,then he heard the liquid puff in the bowl of the heads and he relaxed.When she returned to the bunk, she had stripped off the terry towelling track suit and her naked body felt somehow very vulnerable andprecious in his arms.

They woke together with sunlight pouring into the cabin through oneporthole like stage lighting.

"My God it must be noon." She sat up, and tossed back the long mane ofdark hair over her tanned bare shoulders but when Peter tried to rise,he froze and groaned aloud.

"Qu'a tu, cheri?"

"I must have got caught in a concrete mixer," he moaned.

His bruises had stiffened during the night, torn muscle and strainedsinews protested his slightest movement.

"There is only one cure for both of us," she told him. "It's in threeparts." And she helped him off the bunk as though he was an old man.He exaggerated the extent of his injuries a little to make her chuckle.The chuckle was a little hoarse, but her voice was stronger and clearerand she favoured her own bruises only a little as she led him up ontothe deck.

Her powers of recuperation were those of a young and superbly fitthoroughbred animal.

They swam from the diving platform over the Chriscraft's stern.

"It's working," Peter admitted as the support of warm saltwater soothedhis battered body. They swam side by side, both naked, slowly at firstand then faster, changing the sedate breast-stroke for a hard overarmcrawl, back as far as the reef, treading water there and gasping at theexertion.

"Better?" she panted with her hair floating around her like thetendrils of some beautiful water plant.

"Much better."

"Race you back." They reached the Chris-craft together and clamberedup into the cockpit, cascading water and laughing and panting, but whenhe reached for her, she allowed only a fleeting caress before pullingaway.

"First Phase Two of the cure." She worked in the galley with only afloral apron around her waist which covered the dark bruises of herbelly.

"I never thought an apron could be provocative before."

"You are supposed to be doing the coffee," she admonished him and gavehim a lewd little bump and grind with her bare backside.

Her omelettes were thick and golden and fluffy, and they ate them inthe early sunlight on the upper deck. The trade wind was sheep-dogginga flock of fluffy silver cloud across the heavens, and in the gaps thesky was a peculiar brilliant blue.

They ate with huge appetites, for the bright new morning seemed to havechanged the mood of doom that had overpowered them the previous night.Neither of them wanted to break this mood, and they chatteredinconsequential nonsense, and exclaimed at the beauty of the day andthrew bread crusts to the seagulls, like two children on a picnic.

At last she came to sit in his lap, and made a show of taking hispulse.

"The patient is much improved, "she announced; "is now probably strongenough for Phase Three of the cure."

"Which is?"he asked.

"Peter cheri, even if you are English, you are not that dense. "Andshe wriggled her bottom in his lap.

They made love in the warm sunlight, on one of the foam mattresses,with the trade wind teasing their bodies like unseen fingers.

It began in banter and with low gurgles of laughter, little gasps ofrediscovery, and murmurs of welcome and encouragement then suddenly itchanged, it became charged with almost unbearable intensity, a storm ofemotion that sought to sweep all the ugliness and doubt. They werecaught up in the raging torrent that carried them helplessly beyondmere physical response into an unknown dimension from which thereseemed no way back, a total affirmation of their bodies and their mindsthat made all else seem inconsequential.

"love you," she cried at the very end, as though to deny all else thatshe had been forced to do. "I have loved only you." It was a cry tornfrom the very depths of her soul.

It took a long time for them to return from the far place to which theyhad been driven, to become two separate people again, but when they didsomehow they both sensed that they would never again be completelyseparated; there had been a deeper more significant union than justthat of their two bodies, and the knowledge sobered them and yet, atthe same time, gave them both new strength and a deep IN

elation that neither had to voice it was there, and they both simplyknew it.

They slid the big inflatable Avon dinghy over the stern, and wentashore, pulling the rubber craft above the high-water level and mooringit to one of the slanting palm holes.

Then they wandered inland, picking their way hand in hand between theseabird nests that had been crudely scraped in the earth. Half a dozendifferent species of birds were breeding together in one sprawlingcolony that covered most of the twenty-acre island. Their eggs variedfrom as big as that of a goose's, to others the size of a pullet's andspeckled and spotted in lovely free-form designs.

The chicks were either grotesquely ugly with bare parboiled bodies orwere cute as Walt Disney animations. The entire island was pervaded byan endless susurration of thousands of wings and the uproar ofsquawking, screeching, feuding and mating birds.

Magda knew the zoological names of each species, its range and itshabits, and its chances of survival or extinction in the changingecosystems of the oceans.

Peter listened to her tolerantly, sensing that behind this chatter andstudied gaiety she was steeling herself to answer the accusations thathe had levelled at her.

At the far end of the island was a single massive takamaka tree,

with dense green foliage spreading widely over the fluffy white sand.

By now the sun was fiercely bright and the heat and humidity smotheredthem like a woollen blanket dipped in hot water.

They sought the shade of the takamaka gratefully, and sat closetogether on the sand staring out across the unruffled waters of thelagoon to the silhouette of the main island, five miles away. At thisrange and angle there was no sign of the buildings nor of the jetty,

and Peter had an illusion of the primeval paradise with the two of themthe first man and woman on a fresh and innocent earth.

Magda's next words dispelled that illusion entirely.

"Who ordered you to kill me, Peter? How was the command given? I

must know that before I tell you about myself."

"Nobody,"he answered.

"Nobody? There was no message like the one you received ordering youto kill Parker?"

"No."

"Parker himself or Colin Noble? They did not order you to do it orsuggest it?"

"Parker expressly ordered me not to do it. You were not to be toucheduntil you could be taken in jeopardy."

"It was your own decision?" she insisted.

"It was my duty."

"To avenge your daughter?" He hesitated, would have qualified it, thennodded with total self-honesty. "Yes, that was the most part of it,Melissa-Jane, but I saw it also as my duty to destroy anything evilenough to envisage the taking of 070, the abduction of Aaron Altmannand the mutilation of my daughter."

"Caliph knows about us. Understands us better than we understandourselves. I

am not a coward, Peter, but now I am truly afraid."

"Fear is the tool of his trade," Peter agreed, and she moved slightly,inviting physical contact. He placed one arm about her bare brownshoulders and she leaned lightly against him.

"All that you told me last night was the truth, only the inferences andconclusions were false. Papa's death, the lonely years with strangersas foster-parents of that period my clearest memories are of lyingawake at night and trying to muffle the sound of my weeping with afalse blanket. The return to Poland, yes, that was right, and theOdessa school all of that. I will tell you about

Odessa one day, if you truly want to hear it ?"

"I don't think I do,

he said.

"Perhaps you are wise; do you want to hear about the return to

Paris?"

"Only what is necessary."

"All right, Peter. There were men.

That was what I had been selected and trained for. Yes, there weremen-" She broke Off, and reached up to take his face between herhands,

turning it so she could look into his eyes. "Does that make adifference between us, Peter?"

"I love you, "he replied firmly.

She stared into his eyes for a long time looking for evidence ofdeceit, and then when she found none, "Yes. It is so. You really meanthat." She sighed with relief and laid her head against hisshoulder,

speaking quietly with just that intriguing touch of accent and theoccasional unusual turn of phrase.

"I did not like the men, either, Peter. I think that was why I

chose Aaron Altmann. One man, yes I could still respect myself-" Sheshrugged lightly. "I chose Aaron, and Moscow agreed. It was, as yousaid, delicate work. First I had to win his respect. He had neverrespected a woman before. I proved to him I was as good as any man, atany task he wished to set me. After I had his respect, all elsefollowed-" She paused and chuckled softly. Life plays naughtytricks.

I found firstly that I liked him, then I grew to respect him also. Hewas a great ugly bull of a man, but the power ... A huge raw power,

like some cosmic force, became the centre of my existence." She liftedher head to touch Peter's cheek with her lips in reassurance. "No.

Peter, I never came to love him. I never loved before you. But I

stood in vast awe of him, like a member of a primitive tribe worshipsthe lightning and the thunder. It was like that. He dominated myexistence more than a father, more than a teacher, as much as a god butless, very much less than a lover. He was crude and strong. He didnot make love, he could only rut and tup like the bull he was." Shebroke off and looked seriously at him. "Do you understand that,Peter?

"Physically he did not move me, his smell and the hairiness. He hadhair on his shoulders and like a pelt down his back.

His belly was bulging and hard as iron-" She shivered briefly. " But Ihad been trained to be able to ignore that. To switch off something inthe front of my brain.

Yet in all other ways he fascinated me. He goaded me to thinkforbidden thoughts, to open vaults of my mind that my training hadsecurely locked. All right, he taught me about power and itstrappings. You accused me of that, Peter, and I admit it. The flavourof power and money was to my taste. I like it. I like it very muchindeed. Aaron introduced me to that. He showed me how to appreciatefine and beautiful things, for he was only physically a bull and he hada wonderful appreciation of the refinements of life he made me comecompletely alive. Then he laughed at me. God, I can still hear thebellow of his laughter, and see that great hairy belly shaking withit." She paused to remember it, almost reverently, and then shechuckled her own husky little laugh.

"My fine little communist lady,"" he mocked me. "Yes, Peter, it was Iwho was deceived, he had known from the beginning who I was. He alsoknew about the school at Odessa. He had accepted me as a challenge,certainly he loved me or his version of love, but he took me knowinglyand corrupted my pure ideological convictions. Only then did I learnthat all the information which I had been able to pass to

Moscow had been carefully screened by Aaron.

He doubled me, as I had been sent to double him. He was Mossad,

but of course you know that. He was a Zionist, you know that also.

And he made me realize that I was a Jewess, and what it meant to bethat. He showed me every fatal flaw in the doctrine of Universal

Communism, he convinced me of democracy and the Western Capitalistsystem and then he recruited me to Mossad-" She stopped again, andshook her head vehemently.

To believe that I could have wished to destroy such a one. That I

could have ordered his abduction and mutilation Towards the end, whenhe was getting weak, when the pain was very bad, that was the closest

I

ever came to loving him, the way a mother loves a child. He becamepathetically dependent upon me; he used to say the only thing thatcould lull the pain was my touch. I used to sit for hours rubbing thathairy belly feeling that awful thing growing bigger inside him eachday, like a cauliflower or a grotesque foetus. He would not let themcut it. He hated them, "butchers" he called them. "Butchers withtheir knives and rubber tubes "" She broke off and Peter realized thather eyes were filled with tears. He hugged her a little more firmlyand waited for her to recover.

"It must have been about this time that Caliph made contact with

Aaron. Thinking back I can remember the time when he became suddenlyterribly agitated. It made little sense to me then, but he held longdiatribes about right-wing tyranny being indistinguishable from tyrannyof the left. He never mentioned the name Caliph, I do not think Caliphhad yet used that name and I do believe that Aaron would eventuallyhave told me of the contact if he had lived. It was -the way e was,

even with in detail, me, he could be as wary and subtle as he could beoverpowering. He would have told me of Caliph but Caliph saw to itthat he did not." She pulled away from Peter's arms so she could againsee his face.

"You must understand, cheri, that much of this I have learned onlyrecently in the last few weeks. Much of it I can only piece togetherlike a jig puzzle pardon, a jig-saw puzzle." She corrected herselfswiftly. "But this is what must have happened. Caliph contacted Aaronwith a proposition.

It was a very simple proposition. He was invited to become a partnerof Caliph. Aaron was to make a substantial financial contribution toCaliph's war-chest, and to place his privileged knowledge and lines ofinfluence at Caliph's disposal. In return he would have a hand inengineering Caliph's brave new world. It was a miscalculation OnCaliph's part, perhaps the only mistake he has made up to now. He hadmisjudged Aaron Altmann. Aaron turned him down flat but much moredangerously Caliph had made the mistake of revealing his identity toAaron. I expect that he had to do that in an effort to convince Aaron.You see, Aaron was not a man who would indulge in a game of code namesand hidden identities. That much Caliph had divined correctly. So hehad to confront Aaron face to face, and when he discovered that Aaronwould not join in a campaign of murder and extortion no matter howlaudable the ultimate ends Caliph had no choice. He took Aaron, killedhim after torturing him hideously for information that could have beenuseful, mainly information about his

UM I Mossad connection I imagine. Then he persuaded me to pay theransom. He won two major tricks with a single card.

He silenced Aaron, and he gained the twenty-five million for hiswar-chest."

"How did you learn this? If only you had explained to me before "Peter heard the bitterness in his own voice.

"I did not know it when we first met, please believe me. I

will tell you how I learned it, but please be patient with me. Let metell it as it happened."

"I am sorry, "he said simply.

"The first time I heard the name "Caliph" was the day I delivered theransom. I told you about that, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"So we come now to your part. I heard of you for the first time withthe Johannesburg me hunt down Caliph. I found out about you, Peter. Iwas even able to have a computer printout on you-" She paused, andthere was that mischievous flash in her eye again. "- I will admit tobeing very impressed with the formidable list of your ladies." Peterheld up both hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Never again," he pleaded. "Not another word agreed?"

"Agreed."

She laughed, and then, "I'm hungry, and my throat is sore again withall this talking." They crossed the island again, with their bare feetbaking on the sun-heated sand, and went back on board the Chris,craft.

The chef had stocked the refrigerator with a cornucopia of food,

and Peter opened a bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne.

"You've got expensive tastes," he observed. "I don't know if I

can afford to keep you on my salary."

"I'm sure we could arrange a raise from your boss," she assured himwith the twinkle in her eyes.

In tacit agreement they did not mention Caliph again until they hadeaten.

There is one other thing you must understand, Peter.

I am of Mossad, but I do not control them. They control me. It wasthe same with Aaron. Both of us were and are very valuable agents,

possibly amongst the most valuable of all their networks, but I do notmake decisions, nor am I able to have access to all their secrets.

"Mossad's single-minded goal is the safety and security of the state ofIsrael. It has no other reason for existence. I was certain thatAaron had made a full report to Mossad of Caliph's identity,

that-he had detailed the proposition that Caliph had proposed and I

suspect that Mossad had ordered Aaron to co-operate with Caliph-"

"Why?" Peter demanded sharply.

"I do not know for certain but I can think of two reasons.

Caliph must have been such a powerful and influential man that hissupport would have been valuable.

Then again I suspect that Caliph had pro-Israeli leanings, or professedto have those leanings. Mossad finds allies where it can,

and does not question their morals. I think they ordered Aaron toco-operate with Caliph but-"

"But?" Peter prompted her.

"But you do not order a man like Aaron to go against his deepestconvictions, and under that forbidding exterior Aaron Altmann was a manof great humanity. I think that the reason for his agitation was theconflict of duty and belief that he was forced to endure. His instinctwarned him to destroy Caliph, and his duty-" She shrugged, and pickedup her fluted champagne glass, twisting it between those long slimfingers and studying the pinpricks of bubbles as they rose slowlythrough the pale golden wine. When she spoke again she had changeddirection disconcertingly.

"A thousand times I had tried to discover what was so different betweenyou and me than with the other men I have known. Why none of themcould move me and yet with you it was almost instantaneous--"

She looked up at him again as though she was still seeking thereason.

Of course, I knew so much about you. You had the qualities I admire inanother human being, so I was disposed favourably but there are otherqualities you cannot detail on a computer printout nor capture in aphotograph. There was something about you that made me " She made ahelpless gesture as she searched for the word. You made me tingle."

"That's a good word, Peter smiled.

"And I had never tingled before. So I had to be very sure.

It was a new experience to want a man merely because he is gentle andstrong and-" she chuckled, " just plain sexy.

You are sexy, you know that, Peter, but also you are something else-"She broke off. "No, I am not going to flatter you any more. I

do not want you to get swollen ankles-" mixing the French idiomquaintly with the English, and this time not correcting herself. Shewent straight on. "Caliph must have realized that I had recruited adangerous ally. He made the attempt to kill you that night on the

Rambouillet road-"

"They were after you," Peter cut in.

"Who, Peter? Who was after me?"

"The Russians by that time they knew you were a double agent."

"Yes, they knew-" She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. "I hadthought about it, of course, and there had been two previous attemptson me, but I do not think the attempt on the Rambouillet road wasRussian."

"All right, Caliph then, but after you not me," Peter suggested.

"Perhaps, but again I do not think so. My instinct tells me they hadthe right target. They were after you."

"I would have to agree,"

Peter said. "I think I was followed when I left Paris that evening-"

and he told her about the Citroin. I think they knew that I was alonein the Maserati."

"But it required no special knowledge of you or your domesticarrangements. There was no secret that you had an only child, and itneeded but a casual appraisal of your character to understand howpowerful a lever she could be

"Magda dipped the tip of her finger into the champagne and then suckedit thoughtfully, pursing her lips and frowning slightly.

"You must understand that by this time I had faced the fact that I

was in love with you. The gift was supposed to affirm that-" Sheflushed slightly under her honey tan, and it was appealing andchild-like. He had never seen her blush before and it twistedsomething in his chest.

"The book," he remembered. "The Cornwallis Harris first edition."

"My first love gift ever. I bought it when I finally admitted it tomyself but I was determined that I would not admit it to you. I amold-fashioned enough to believe the man must speak first."

"I did."

"God, I'll never forget it," she said fervently, and they both thoughtof the savage confrontation the previous day which had endedincongruously in a declaration of love.

"I try to be unconventional," he said, and she shook her headsmiling.

"You succeed, mon amour, oh how you succeed." Then she sobered again."I was in love with you. Your distress was mine. The child was alovely girl, she had captivated me when we met and on top of all that Ifelt deadly responsible for her plight. I had inveigled you intojoining my hunt for Caliph, and because of that you had lost yourdaughter." He bowed his head slightly, remembering how he had believedthat she had engineered it. She recognized the gesture.

"Yes, Peter. For me it was the cruel lest stroke. That you shouldbelieve it of me. There was nothing that I would not have done to giveher back to you and yet there seemed nothing that I could do.

My contacts with French intelligence had nothing for me. They had noinkling of how or where the child was being held and my control at

Mossad was unaccountably evasive. Somehow I had the feeling that

Mossad had the key to the kidnapping. If they were not directlyinvolved they knew more than anybody else. I have already explainedthat I believed Aaron had given them the identity of Caliph. If thatwas so, then they must know something that could have helped you torecover your child but from Paris I was powerless to gather thatinformation.

I had to go in person to Israel and confront my control there. It wasthe one chance that I could get them to cooperate. They might believemy value as an agent was worth enough to give me a lead to

Melissa-Jane-"

"You threatened Mossad with resignation?" Peter asked wonderingly."You would have done that for me?"

"Oh, Peter, don't you understand? I loved you and I had never been inlove before. I

would have done anything for you."

"You make me feel humble, he said.

She did not reply, but let the statement stand as though she weresavouring it, then she sighed contentedly and went on. "I lefteverything in Paris. I have an established routine for disappearingwhen it is necessary. Pierre took me to Rome in the Lear; from there

I

telephoned you but I could not tell you what I was going to do. Then

I

switched identity and took a commercial flight to Tel Aviv. My taskin

Israel was difficult, much more difficult than I had bargained for. Itwas five days before my control would see me. He is an old friend.

No! perhaps not a friend, but we have known each other a long time.

He is the deputy director of Mossad. That is how highly they value myservices, to give me such an important controller, but still it tookfive days before he would see me, and he was cold.

There was no help they could give me, he said. They knew nothing." Shechuckled. "You have never seen me when I want something really badly,Peter. Ha! What a battle.

There is much I knew that would embarrass Mossad with her powerfulallies of the West with France and Great Britain and the U.S.A. - I

threatened to hold a Press conference in New York. He became lesscold, he told me that the security of the State took precedence overall personal feelings, and I said something very rude about thesecurity of the State, and reminded him of some outstanding businesswhich I would happily leave outstanding. He became warmer but all thiswas taking time, days, many days, too many days. I was going crazy. Iremembered how they had found Aaron's body, and I could not sleep atnight for worrying about that lovely child. And you, oh

Peter, you will never know how I prayed to a god that I was not toosure of. You will never know how I wanted to be with you to comfortyou. I wanted so desperately just to hear your voice but I could notbreak my cover from Tel Aviv.

I could not even telephone you, nor send you a letter She broke off. Ihoped you would not believe bad things of me. You would not believethat I did not care. That I was not prepared to help you. I

could only hope that I would be able to bring you some information ofvalue to prove it was not true but I never dreamed that one day youwould believe that it was I who had taken your daughter and torturedher."

"I'm sorry, "he said quietly.

"No, do not say you are sorry. We were both Caliph's playthings.

There is no blame on you." She laid her hand upon his arm and smiledat him. "It was not you alone who believed bad things. For at last Ihad prevailed on my Mossad control to give me some little scraps ofinformation.

At first he denied completely that they had ever heard of

Caliph, but I risked lying to him. I told him that Aaron had told mehe had reported the Caliph contact. He gave ground. Yes, headmitted.

They knew of Caliph, but they did not know who he was. I hammeredon,

demanding to see my controller each day, driving him as mad as I wasuntil he threatened to have me deported even. But each time we met I

wheedled and bullied a little more from him.

"At last he admitted, "All right, we know Caliph but he is verydangerous, very powerful and he will become more powerful God willing,he will become one of the most powerful men in the world, and he is afriend of Israel. Or rather we believe he is a friend of

Israel."

"I bullied some more and he told me, "We have put an agent close toCaliph, very close to him, and we cannot jeopardize this agent. He isa valuable agent, very valuable but very vulnerable to Caliph. Wecannot take the chance that Caliph could trace information back tohim.

We have to protect our man. "Now I threatened, and he told me theagent's code name to protect both of us should we ever have to makecontact. The code-name is "CACTUS FLOWER"."

"That was all?" Peter asked, with evident disappointment.

"No, my control gave me another name. As a sop and as a warning. Thename they gave me was so close to Caliph as to be virtually the same.Again he warned me that he was giving me the name for my ownprotection."

"What was it?" Peter demanded eagerly.

"Your name," she said softly. "Stride." Peter made an irritablegesture of dismissal. "My name is nonsensical. Why would I kidnap andmutilate my own daughter and Cactus Flower. He might as well havesaid, "Kentucky Fried Chicken"."

"Now it's my turn to say I'm sorry."

Peter caught himself, realizing suddenly that he had been too quick todismiss these scraps of information. He stood up and paced the deck ofthe Chris-craft with choppy, agitated steps, frowning heavily."Cactus

Flower," he repeated. "Have you ever heard it before?"

"No," she shook her head.

"Since then?"

"No,"again.

He searched his memory, trying for a sympathetic echo.

There was none.

"All right." He accepted that as having no immediate If value.

"We'll just remember it for now. Let's come to my name Peter Stride.

What did you make of that?"

"It didn't mean anything then, except as a shock.

Strangely enough I did not immediately think of you, but I thought ofconfusion between the kidnapper and the Victim's dna." Stride?" heasked. "Peter Stride? I don't understand."

"No, well Melissa-Jane is a Stride also."

"Yes, of course. They didn't give you the name

Peter Stride then?"

"No. Just Stride."

"I see." Peter stopped in mid-pace as an idea struck him and staredout thoughtfully to where the ocean met a blue horizon.

"But they gave me your full name later," she interrupted histhoughts.

"When?"

"After we received the news that Melissa-Jane had been rescued. Ofcourse, I wanted to return to Paris immediately to be with you. I wasable to get onto a flight from Ben, Gurion Airport six hours after weheard the news. My heart was singing, Peter.

Melissa-Jane was safe, and I was in love.

I was going to be with you very soon. At the airport, while I wasgoing through the security check before departure, the policewoman tookme aside to the security office. My control was waiting for me there.He had rushed out from Tel Aviv to catch me before I left for home, andhe was very worried. They had just received an urgent message fromCactus Flower. General Peter Stride was now definitely

Caliph -motivated, and would assassinate me at the first opportunity,

he told me. And I laughed at him but he was deadly serious. "My dearBaroness, Cactus Flower is a firstclass man. You must take thiswarning seriously," he kept repeating." Magda shrugged. "I still didnot believe it, Peter. It was impossible. I loved you, and I knew youloved me although perhaps you had not yet realized that yourself. Itwas crazy.

But on the aircraft I had time to think. My control at Mossad hasnever been wrong before. Can you imagine my dilemma now how dearly I

wanted to be with you, and yet I was now terrified not that you wouldkill me. That did not seem important but that you would truly turn outto be Caliph. That was what really frightened me. You see, I hadnever loved a man before. I don't think I could have stood it." Shewas quiet for a while, remembering the pain and confusion, and then sheshook her head so that the thick fall of dark shimmering hair rustledaround her shoulders.

"Once I reached Paris, my first concern was to learn that you and

Melissa-Jane were safe at Abbots Yew, and then I could begin to try andfind out how much substance there was in Cactus Flower's warning butuntil I could count on how safe it was I could not take the chance ofbeing alone with you. Every time you attempted to contact me, I had todeny you, and it felt as though some little part of me was dying." Shereached across and took his hand now, opened the fingers and bowed herhead to kiss the palm and then held it to her cheek as she went on.

"A hundred times I convinced myself that it could not be true, and

I was on the point of going to you. Oh, Peter finally I could take itno longer. I decided to meet you at Orly that day and find out one wayor the other, end the terrible uncertainty, I had the grey wolves withme, a" you remember, and they had been warned to expect trouble I

didn't tell them to watch you," she explained quickly, as if You werepart of Caliph, you see, and it would have been the wise thing to do.

I admit that I thought of it, Peter. Have you killed, before you couldkill V: me but it was only a thought and it did not go farther thanthat. Instead I went on with the business of living, work has alwaysbeen an opiate for me. If I work hard enough I can forget anything butthis time it didn't turn out that way. I've said it before, but itexplains so much that I will say it again. I had never been in lovebefore, Peter, and I could not turn it off. It tormented me, and I

cherished doubts about Cactus Flower's warning and what I had seen soclearly in the lounge at Orly Airport. It couldn't be, it justcouldn't be true I loved you and you loved me, and you just couldn't beplotting to kill me. I almost convinced myself of that." She laughedcurtly, but it had no humour in the sound, only the bitterness ofdisillusion.

"I came out here-" she made a gesture that embraced sea and sky andislands to be away from the temptation of going to you. A

sanctuary where I could recover from my wounds and begin to get overyou. But it didn't work, Peter.

It was worse here. I had more time to think, to torture myself withwild speculation and grotesque theories. There was only one way.

Finally I recognized that. I would bring trying to dispel any memoryof disloyalty, "but if you had tried to get at me they would have "Shebroke off, and let his hand fall away from her cheek. "The moment youwalked into the private lounge at Orly, I saw it was true. I couldsense it, there was an aura of death around you. It was the mostfrightening and devastating moment of my life, you looked like adifferent man not the Peter Stride I knew your whole face seemed to bealtered and restructured by hatred and anger. I kissed you goodbye,

because I knew we could never meet again." Remembering it her facedarkened with sadness, as though a cloud shadow had passed over them.

"I even thought that I had to protect myself by" She gagged thewords.

you out here and give you the chance to kill me." She laughed again,and now there was the old husky warmth in it. "It was the most crazything I have ever done in my life but thank God, I did it."

"We went right to the very brink," Peter agreed.

"Peter, why didn't you ask me outright if I was Caliph?" she wanted toknow.

"The same reason you didn't ask me outright if I was plotting to killyou."

" she agreed. "We were just caught up in the web that

Caliph had spun for us. I have only one more question, Peter cheri.

If I was Caliph, do you truly believe that I would have been so stupidas to give my telephone number at Rambouillet to the man whokidnapped

Melissa-Jane, and instruct him to ring me for a friendly chat wheneverhe felt like it?" Peter looked startled, "I thought-" he began, thenstopped. No, I didn't think. I wasn't thinking clearly at all. Ofcourse, you wouldn't have done that and yet, even the cleverestcriminals make the most elementary mistakes."

"Not those who have been trained at the Odessa school," she remindedhim, and seemed immediately to regret the words, for she went onquickly. "So there is my side of the story, Peter. I may have leftsomething out if you can think of anything, then ask me, darling, andI'll try to fill in any missing pieces." And so they started onceagain at the very beginning, and went over the ground minutely,searching for anything they might have overlooked at the first tellingof it, this time exhaustively re-examining each fact from every angle,both of them applying their trained minds to the full without beingable to come up with more than they already had.

"One thing we must never let out of sight for a moment is the qualityof the opposition." Peter summed it up as the sun began loweringitself towards the western horizon, its majestic progress flanked bycohorts of cumulonimbus cloud rising into towering anvil heads over thescattered islands, like silent nuclear explosions.

"There are layers upon layers, reasons behind reasons, the kidnappingof Melissa-Jane was not merely to force me to assassinate

Kingston Parker, but you as well the proverbial two birds with a thirdbird to follow. If I had succeeded I would have been hooked into

Caliph for ever."

"Where do you and I go from here, Peter?" she asked,

tacitly transferring ultimate decision-making to him.

"How about home, right now," he suggested. "Unless you fancy anothernight out here." Peter found that his possessions had been discreetlymoved from the guest bungalow to the owner's significant privatequarters on the north tip of the island.

His toilet articles had been laid out in the mirrored master bathroom,which flanked that of the mistress. His clothing, all freshly cleanedand pressed, was in the master's dressing-room where there was onehundred and fifty-five feet of louvred hanging space Peter paced it outand calculated it would take three hundred suits of clothing.

There were specially designed swinging shelves for another threehundred shirts and racks for a hundred pairs of shoes although all wereempty.

His light cotton suit looked as lonely as a single camel in the midstof the Sahara desert. His shoes had been burnished to a gloss thateven his batman had never been able to achieve. Despite himself hesearched the dressing-room swiftly for the signs of previous occupancyand was ridiculously relieved to find none.

"I could learn to rough it like this," he told his reflection in themirror as he combed the damp, darkly curling locks off his forehead.

The sitting-room off the suite was on three levels, and had beendecorated with cane furniture and luxuriant tropical plants growing inancient Greek wine amphoras or in rookeries that were incorporated intothe flowing design of the room. The creepers and huge glossy leaves ofthe plants toned in artistically with jungle-patterned curtaining andthe dense growth of exotic plants beyond the tall picture windows yetthe room was cool and inviting, although the sound of air-conditioningwas covered by the twinkle of a waterfall down the cunningly contrivedrock face that comprised one curved wall of the room. Tropical fishfloated gracefully in the clear pools into which the waterfallspilled,

and the perfume of growing flowers pervaded the room, and their bloomsglowed in the subdued lighting.

One of the little golden Polynesian girls brought a tray of four tallfrosted glasses for Peter to choose from. They were all filled withfruit and he could smell the sweet warm odour of rum mingled with thefruit. He guessed they would be almost lethal and asked for a whisky,then relented with the girl's eyes flooded with disappointment.

"I make them myself," she wailed.

"In that case "He sipped while she waited anxiously.

Tarfait!" He exclaimed, and she giggled with gratification, and wentoff wriggling her bottom under the brief pa reo like a happy puppy.

Magda came then in a chiffon dress so gossamer-light that it floatedabout her like a fine green sea mist, through which her limbs gleamedas the light caught them.

He felt the catch in his breathing as she came towards him, and hewondered if he would ever accustom himself to the impact of herbeauty.

She took the glass from his hand and tasted it.

"Good," she said, and handed it back. But when the girl brought thetray she refused with a smile.

They moved about the room, Magda on his arm as she pointed out therarer plants and fishes.

"I built this wing after Aaron's death," she told him, and he realizedthat she wanted him to know that it contained no memories of anotherman. It amused him that she should find that important and then heremembered his own furtive search of the dressing-room for signs of alover before him, and the amusement turned inward.

One wall of the private dining-room was a single sheet of armouredglass, beyond which the living jewels of coral fish drifted insubtly-lit sea caverns and the fronds of magnificent sea plants wavedin gentle unseen currents.

Magda ordered the seating changed so they could be side by side in thelow lovers" seat facing the aquarium.

do not like you to be far away any more," she explained, and she pickedspecial tit bits from the serving dishes for his plate.

"This is a speciality of Les Neuf Poissons. You will eat it nowhereelse in the world." She selected small deep-sea crustaceans from asteaming creole sauce of spices and coconut cream and at the end of themeal she peeled chilled grapes from Australia with those delicatefingers, using the long shell-pink nails with the precision of askilled surgeon to remove the pips and then placing them between hislips with thumb and forefinger.

"You spoil me,"he smiled.

"I never had a doll when I was a little girl," she explained,

smiling.

A circular stone staircase led to the beach fifty feet below thedining-room and they left their shoes on the bottom step and walkedbare-footed on the smooth, damp sand, compacted as hard as cement bythe receding tide. The moon was a few days past full, and itsreflection drew a pathway of yellow light to the horizon.

"Caliph must be made to believe that he has succeeded," Peter saidabruptly, and she shivered against him.

:"I wish we could forget Caliph for one night." We cannot afford toforget him for a moment."

"No, you are right. How do we make him believe that?"

"You have to die, He felt her stiffen. or at least appear to do so. It has to look as though I

killed you."

"Tell me, "she invited quietly.

"You told me that you have special arrangements for when you want todisappear."

"Yes, I do."

"How would you disappear from here if you had to do so?" She thoughtfor only a moment. "Pierre would fly me to

Bora-Bora. I have friends there. Good friends. I would take theisland airline to Tahiti-Faaa on another passport and then a scheduledairline in the same name to California or New Zealand."

"You have other papers?" he demanded.

"yes, of course." She sounded so surprised by the question, that heexpected her to ask." doesn't everybody?"

"If you are dead Caliph is not going to make another attempt to haveyou killed. "GoodV she agreed.

"So you stay officially dead until we flush Caliph out," Peter toldher, and it sounded like an order but she did not demur as he went on."And if I carry out Caliph's evident wishes by killing you, it's goingto make me a very valuable asset I will have proved myself, and so hewill cherish me.

It will give me another chance to get close to him. At least it willgive me a chance to check out a few wild hunches."

"Don't let's make my death too convincing, my love. I am a greatfavourite of the police on Tahiti," she murmured.

"I'd hate to have you end up under the guillotine at Tuarruru."

Peter woke before her and raised himself on one elbow over her to studyher face, delighting to find new planes and angles to her high broadcheekbones, gloating in the velvety texture of her skin, so fine thatthe pores were indefinable from farther than a few inches. Then hetransferred his attention to the curve of her eyelashes thatinterlocked into a thick dark palisade seeming to seal her eyelidsperpetually in sleep yet they sprang open suddenly, the huge blackpools of her pupils shrinking rapidly as she focused, and for the firsttime he realized that the irises were not pure green but were fleckedand shot through with gold and violet.

The surprise of finding him over her changed slowly to pleasure,

and she stretched her arms out over her head and arched her back, theway a lazy panther does when it rouses itself. The satin sheet sliddown to her waist and she prolonged the stretch a little longer thanwas necessary, a deliberate display of her body.

"Every other morning of my life that I woke without you there waswasted," she murmured huskily, and raised her arms still at fullstretch to him, folding them gracefully around his neck, still holdingher back arched so that the prominent dark-red nipples brushed lightlyagainst the crisp dark mat of curls that covered his own chest.

"Let's pretend this will last for ever," she whispered, with her lipsan inch from his, and her breath was rich as an overblown rose,

heavy with the smell of vital woman and rising passion; then her lipsspread softly, warmly against his and she sucked his tongue deeply intoher mouth, with a low moan of wanting and the hard slim body began towork against his, the hands breaking from his neck and hunting down hisspine, long curved nails pricking and goading him just short of pain.

His own arousal was so swift and so brutally hard that she moanedagain, and the tension went out of her body, it seemed to soften andspread like a wax figure held too close to the flame, her eyelidstrembling closed and her thighs falling apart.

"So strong-" she whispered, deep in her throat and he reared up overher, feeling supreme, invincible.

"Peter, Peter," she cried. "Oh yes like that. Please like that."

Both of them striving triumphantly for the moment of glory when eachwas able to lose self and become for a fleeting instant part of thegodhead.

Long afterwards they lay side by side in the enormous bed, both of themstretched out flat upon their backs, not touching except for thefingers of one hand intertwined as their bodies had been.

"I will go away-" she whispered, but not now. Not yet." He did notreply, the effort was beyond him, and her own voice was languorous witha surfeit of pleasure.

"I will make a bargain with you. Give me three days more. Only threedays, to be happy like this. For me it is the first time. I

have never known this before, and it may be the last time-" He tried torouse himself to deny it, but she squeezed his fingers for silence andwent on.

" It may be the last," she repeated. "And I want to have it all. Threedays, in which we do not mention Caliph, in which we do not think ofthe blood and striving and suffering out there. If you give me that Iwill do everything that you want me to do. Is it a bargain,

Peter? Tell me we can have that."

"Yes. We can have that."

"Then tell me you love me again, I do not think I can hear you say ittoo often."

because I have to, He said it often during those magic days, and shehad spoken the truth, each time he told her she accepted with as muchjoy as the last time, and always each seemed to be within touchingdistance of the other.

Even when tearing side by side across the warm. flat waters of thelagoon, leaning back with straight arms on the tow lines, skis hissingangrily and carving fiercely sparkling wings of water from the surfaceas they wove back and forth in a pas de deux across the streaming,creaming water, laughing together in the wind and the engine roar ofthe Chris-craft, Hapiti the Polynesian boatman on the flying bridgelooking back with a great white grin of sympathy for their joy.

Finning gently through mysterious blue and dappled depths, the onlysound the wheezing suck and blow of their scuba valves and the softclicking and the eternal echoing susurration that is the pulse beat ofthe ocean, holding hands as they sank down to the long abandoned hullof the Japanese aircraft carrier, now overgrown with a waving forest ofsea growth and populated by a teeming fascinating multitude ofbeautiful and bizarre creatures.

Flying silently down the sheer steel cliff of the canted flight deck,which seemed to reach down into the very oceanic depths, so that therewas the eerie fear of suddenly being deprived of support and fallingdown to where the surface light blued out in nothingness.

Pausing to peer through their glass face-plates into the still gapingwounds rent into the steel by aerial bombs and high explosive,

and then entering through those cruel caverns cautiously as childreninto a haunted house and emerging victoriously with carrier nets oftrophies, coins and cutlery, brass and porcelain.

Strolling on the secluded beaches of the outer islands, still hand inhand, naked in the sunlight.

Fishing the seething tide-race through the main channel at full springtide, and shouting with excitement as the golden amberjack came boilingup in the wake, bellies flashing like mirrors, to hit the dancingfeather lures, and send the Penn reels screeching a wild protest, andthe fibreglass rods nodding and kicking.

Out in the humbling silences of the unrestricted ocean, when even thesmudge of the islands disappeared beyond the wave crests for minutes ata time, with only the creak and whisper of the rigging, the tremblingpregnancy of the main sail, and the rust leas the twin hulls of the bigHobie cat knifed the tops off the swells.

Strolling the long curving beaches in the moonlight, searching for theheavenly bodies that so seldom show through the turbid skies of

Europe Orion the hunter and the Seven Sisters exclaiming at thestranger constellations of this hemisphere governed by the great fixedcross in the southern heavens.

Each day beginning and ending in the special wonder and mystery of thecircular bed, in loving that welded their bodies and their soulstogether each time more securely.

Then on the fourth day day Peter woke to find her gone, and for amoment experienced an appalling sensation of total loss.

When she came back to him he did not recognize her for a breath oftime.

Then he realized that she had cut away the long dark tresses of herhair, cropped it down short so that it curled close against her skull,like the petals of a dark flower. It had the effect of making her seemeven taller. Her neck like the stem of the flower,

longer, and the curve of the throat accentuated so that it becamedelicate and swan-like.

She saw his expression, and explained in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I thought some change was necessary, if I am to leave under a newidentity. It will grow again, if you want it that way." She seemed tohave changed completely herself, the languid amorous mood given way tothe brisk business-like efficiency of before. While they ate a lastbreakfast of sweet yellow papaya and the juice of freshly squeezedlimes she explained her intentions, as she went swiftly through thebuff envelope that her secretary had silently laid beside her plate.

There was a red Israeli diplomatic passport in the envelope.

"I will be using the name Ruth Levy-" and she picked up the thickbooklet of airline tickets, and I have decided to go back toJerusalem.

I have a house there. It's not in my name, and I do not think anybodyelse outside of Mossad is aware of it. It will be an ideal base, closeto my control at Mossad. I will try to give you what support I can,

try to get further information to assist you in the hunt-" She passedhim a typed sheet of notepaper.

That is a telephone number at Mossad where you can get a message to me.Use the name Ruth Levy." He memorized the number while she went ontalking, and then shredded the sheet of paper.

"I have modified the arrangements for my departure," she told him.

"We will take the Chris-craft across to Bora-Bora.

It's only a hundred miles. I will radio ahead. My friends will meetme off the beach after dark." They crept in through a narrow passagein the coral with all the lights on the Chris-craft doused,

Magda's boatman using only what was left of the waning moon and his ownintimate knowledge of the islands to take her in.

"I wanted Hapiti to see me go ashore alive, "she whispered quietly,

leaning against Peter's chest to draw comfort from their last minutestogether. "I did not exaggerate the danger you might be in if thelocal people thought what we want Caliph to think. Hapiti will keephis mouth shut-" she assured him and will back up your story of a sharkattack, unless you order him to tell the truth."

"You think of everything."

"I have only just found you, monsieur she chuckled. "I

do not want to lose you yet. I have even decided to speak a word tothe Chief of Police on Tahiti, when I pass through.

He is an old friend. When you get back to Les Neuf Poissons, have mysecretary radio Tahiti-" She went on quietly, covering every detail ofher arrangements, and he could find no emissions. She was interruptedby a soft hail from out of the darkness and Hapiti throttled thediesels back to idle. They drifted down closer to the loom of theisland. A canoe bumped against the side, and Magda turned quickly inhis arms, reaching up for his mouth with hers.

"Please be careful, Peter," was all that she said, and then she brokeaway and stepped down into the canoe as Hapiti handed down her singlevalise. The canoe pushed away immediately, and was lost in the dark.There was nothing to wave at, and Peter liked it better that way, butstill he stared back over the stern into the night as the

Chris-craft groped blindly for the channel again.

There was a hollow feeling under his ribs, as though part of himselfwas missing; he tried to fill it with a memory of Magda that had amusedhim because it epitomized for him her quick and pragmatic mind.

When the news of your death hits the market, the bottom is going todrop out of Altmann stock." He had realized this halfway through theirfinal discussion that morning. "I hadn't thought of that." He wastroubled by the complication.

"I had," she smiled serenely. "I estimate it will lose a hundredfrancs a share within the first week after the news breaks."

"Doesn't that worry you?"

"Not really." She gave that sudden wicked grin. "I

telexed a buying order to Zurich this morning. I expect to show aprofit of not less than a hundred million francs when the stock bouncesback." Again the mischievous flash of green eyes "I do have to berecompensed for all this inconvenience, tu the senses pas?" Andalthough he still smiled at the memory, the hollow place remained thereinside him.

ierre flew the Tahitian police out to Les Neod Poissons in the

Tri-Islander, and there followed two days of questions andstatements.

Nearly every member of the community wished to make a statement to thepolice, there had seldom been such entertainment and excitementavailable on the islands.

Nearly all of the statements were glowing eulogies to To Baronne"

delivered to the accompaniment of lamentation and weeping. Only Hapitihad first-hand information and he made the most of this position ofimportance, embroidering and gilding the tale. He was even able togive a positive identification of the shark as a "Dead White' The

English name startled Peter until he remembered that the movie Jaws wasin the island's cassette video library and was undoubtedly the sourceof the big boatman's inspiration.

Hapiti went on to describe its fangs as long and sharp as cane knives,and to give a gruesome imitation of the sound they made as they closedon "La Baronne" Peter would willingly have gagged him to prevent thoseflights of imagination, which were not supported by

Peter's own statement, but the police sergeant was greatly impressedand encouraged Hapiti to further acts of creation with cries ofastonishment.

On the last evening there was a funeral feast on the beach for

Magda. It was a moving ritual, and Peter found himself curiouslyaffected when the women of the island, swaying and wailing at thewater's edge, cast wreaths of frangipani blooms onto the tide to becarried out beyond the reef.

Peter flew back to Tahiti-Faaa with the police the following morning,and they stayed with him, flanking him discreetly, on the drive to theheadquarters of gendarmerie in the town. However, his interview withthe Chief of Police was brief and courteous clearly

Magda had been there before him and if there was no actual exchange ofwinks and nudges, the commissioner's handshake of farewell was firm andfriendly.

"Any friend of La Baronne is a friend here." And he used the presenttense, then sent Peter back to the airport in an official car.

The UTA flight landed in California through that sulphurouseye-stinging layer of yellow air trapped between sea and mountains.

Peter did not leave the airport, but after he had shaved and changedhis shirt in the men's room he found a copy of the Wail Street Journalin the first-class Pa nAm Clipper lounge. It was dated the previousday, and the report of Magda Altmann's death was on Page Three. It wasa full column, and Peter was surprised by the depth of the Altmann

Industries involvement in the American financial scene. The complexof. holdings was listed, followed by a resume of Baron Aaron Altmann'scareer and that of his widow. The cause of death as given by the

Tahitian police was "Shark Attack" while scuba diving in the company ofa friend General Peter Stride Peter was grimly satisfied that his namewas mentioned. Caliph would read it, wherever he was, and draw theappropriate conclusion. Peter could expect something to happen now; hewas not quite sure what, but he knew that he was being drawn closer tothe centre like a fragment of iron to the magnet.

He managed to sleep for an hour, in one of the big armchairs,

before the hostess roused him for the Pan-Am Polar flight to London's

Heathrow.

He called Pat Stride, his sister-in-law, from Heathrow Airport.

She was unaffectedly delighted to hear his voice.

Steven is in Spain, but I am expecting him home tomorrow before lunch,that is if his meetings go the way he wants them. They want to build athirty-six hole golf course at San Istaban-" Steven's companies owned acomplex of tourist hotels on the Spanish coast " and Steven had to gothrough the motions with the Spanish authorities. But, why don't youcome down to Abbots Yew tonight? Alex and Priscilla are here, andthere will be an amusing house party for the weekend-" He could hearthe sudden calculating tone in Pat's voice as she began instinctivelyto run through the shortlist of potential mates for

Peter.

After he had accepted and hung up, he dialled the Cambridge number andwas relieved that Cynthia's husband, George Barrow, answered.

Give me a Bolshevik intellectual over a neurotic ex-wife any day,

he thought as he greeted Melissa-Jane's stepfather warmly. Cynthia wasat a meeting of the Faculty Wives Association, and Melissa-Jane wasauditioning for a part in i a production of Gilbert and Sullivan by thelocal drama society.

"How is she?" Peter wanted to know.

"I think she is well over it now, Peter. The hand is completelyhealed. She seems to have settled down.-They spoke for a few minutesmore, then ran out of conversation.

The two women were all they had in common.

"Give Melissa-Jane my very best love," Peter told him, and picked up acopy of The Financial Times from a news, stand on his way to the

Avis desk. He hired a compact and while waiting for it to be deliveredhe searched swiftly through the newspaper for mention of MagdaAltmann.

It was on an inside page, clearly a followup article to a previousreport of her death. There had been a severe reaction on the Londonand European stock exchanges the hundred4raric drop in Altmann stockthat Magda had anticipated had already been exceeded on the Bourse andagain there was a brief mention of his own name in a repetition of thecircumstances of her death. He was satisfied with the publicity,

and with Magda's judgement in buying back her own stock. Indeed it allseemed to be going a little too smoothly. He became aware of thefateful prickle of apprehension down his spine, his own personalbarometer of impending danger.

As always Abbots Yew was like coming home, and Pat met him on thegravel of the front drive, kissed him with sisterly affection andlinked her arm through his to lead him into the gracious old house.

"Steven will be delighted," she promised him. "I expect he willtelephone this evening. He always does when he is away." There was abuff cable envelope propped on the bedside table of the guest roomoverlooking the stables that was always reserved for Peter. Themessage originated at BenGurion Airport, Tel Aviv, and was a singleword the code he had arranged with Magda to let him know that shearrived safely and without complication. The message gave him a sharppang of wanting, and he lay in a deep hot bath and thought about her,

remembering small details of conversation and shared experience thatsuddenly were of inflated value.

While he towelled himself he regarded his image in the steamed mirrorwith a critical eye. He was lean and hard and burned dark as a desertArab by the Pacific sun. He watched the play of muscle under thetanned skin as he moved, and he knew that he was as fit and as mentallyprepared for action as he had ever been, glad that Magda was safelybeyond the reach of Caliph's talons so that he could concentrate allhis energies on what his instincts told him must be the final stage ofthe hunt.

He went through to his bedroom with the towel around his waist andstretched out on the bed to wait for the cocktail hour in Pat Stride'srigidly run household.

He wondered what made him so certain that this was the lead which wouldcarry him to Caliph, it seemed so slim a chance and yet the certaintywas like a steel thread, and the steel was in his heart.

That made him pause. Once again he went carefully over the changeswhich had taken place within him since his first exposure to

Caliph's malignant influence; the fatal miasma of corruption thatseemed to spread around Caliph like the poisonous mists from some evilswamp seemed to have engulfed Peter entirely.

He thought again of his execution of the blonde girl at

Johannesburg what seemed like a thousand years before, but with mildsurprise realized was months not years ago.

He thought of how he had been prepared to kill both Kingston

Parker and Magda Altmann and realized that contact with violence wasbrutalizing, capable of eroding the principles and convictions which hehad believed inviolate after almost forty years of having lived withthem.

If this was so, then after Caliph if he succeeded in destroying himwhat was there after Caliph? Would he ever be the same man again? Hadhe advanced too far beyond the frontiers of social behaviour andconscience?

Would he ever go back? he wondered. Then he thought about Magda

Altmann and realized she was his hope for the future, after Caliphthere would be Magda.

These doubts were weakening, he told himself. There must be nodistractions now, for once again he was in the arena with theadversary. No distraction, no doubts only total concentration on theconflict ahead.

He stood up from the bed and began to dress.

Steven was delighted to have Peter at Abbots Yew again, as Pat hadpredicted.

He also was tanned from the short stay in Spain, but he had again puton weight, only a few pounds, but it would soon be a serious problem,good food and drink were two of the occupational hazards of success:the most evident but not the most dangerous temptations that face a manwho has money enough to buy whatever idly engages his fancy.

Peter watched him covertly during the lunch, studying the handsome headwhich was so very much like his own, the same broad brow and straightaristocratic nose, and yet was so different in small but significantdetails, and it was not only Steven's thick dark mustache.

All right, it's easy to be wise afterwards, Peter told himself, as hewatched his twin brother. Seeing again the little marks, which onlynow seemed to have meaning. The narrower set of eyes, slightly tooclose together, so that even when he laughed that deep bluff guffaw ofhis they seemed still to retain a cold cruel light, the mouth that evenin laughter was still too hard, too determined, the mouth of a man whowould brook no check to his ambitions, no thwarting of his desires. Oram I imagining it now? Peter wondered. It was so easy to see what youlooked for expectantly.

The conversation at lunch dwelt almost exclusively on the prospects forthe flat-racing season which had opened at Doncaster the previousweekend, and Peter joined it knowledgeably; but as he chatted he wascasting back along the years, to the incidents that might have troubledhim more if he had not immediately submerged them under an instinctiveand unquestioning loyalty to his twin brother.

There was Sandhurst when Steven had been sent down, and Peter had knownunquestioningly that it was unjust.

No Stride was capable of what Steven had been accused of, and he hadnot even had to discuss it with his brother. He had affirmed hisloyalty with a handshake and a few embarrassed muttered words.

Since then Steven's rise had been meteoric through the post-war yearsin which it seemed almost impossible for even the most able man toamass a great fortune, a man had to have special talents and taketerrible risks to achieve what Steven had.

Now sitting at his brother's board, eating roast saddle of lamb and thefirst crisp white asparagus shoots of the season flown in from theContinent, Peter was at last covering forbidden ground, examiningloyalties which until then had been unquestioned. Yet they were strawsscattered by the winds of time, possibly without significance. Petertransferred his thoughts to the present.

"Stride," Magda's control at Mossad in Tel-Aviv had said.

Just the two names: "Cactus Flower" and "Stride." That was fact andnot conjecture.

Down the length of the luncheon table Sir Steven Stride caught hisbrother's eye.

"Enchanted, I'm sure." Peter gave the correct reply, a little ritualbetween them, a hangover from Sandhurst days, and Peter was surprisedat the depth of his regret. Perhaps Caliph has not yet succeeded incorrupting me entirely, Peter thought, as he drank the toast.

After lunch there was another of their brotherly rituals.

Steven signalled it with a jerk of the head and Peter nodded agreement.Peter's old army duffle coat was in the cupboard below the backstaircase with his Wellingtons, and he and Steven changed into roughclothing sitting side by side on the monk's bench in the rear entrancehall as they had so often before.

Then Steven went through into the gunroom, took down a Purdey

Royal shotgun from the rack, and thrust a handful of cartridges in hiscoat pocket.

"Damned vixen has a litter of cubs somewhere in the bottoms,

playing merry hell with the pheasant chicks--" he explained as Peterasked a silent question. "It goes against the grain a bit to shoot afox but I must put a stop to her haven't had a chance at her yet-" andhe led the way out towards the stream.

It was almost a formal beating of the bounds, the leisurely circuit ofthe estate boundaries that the two brothers always made on

Peter's first day at Abbots Yew, another old comfortable traditionwhich allowed them time to have each other's news and reaffirm the bondbetween them They sauntered along the riverbank, side by side, movinginto single file with Steven leading when the path narrowed and turnedaway from the stream and went up through the woods.

Steven was elated by the success of his visit to Spain, and he boastedof his achievements in obtaining another parcel of prime seaftontproperty on which to build the new golf course and to extend the hotelby another five hundred rooms.

"Now's the time to buy. Mark my words, Peter we are on the verge ofanother explosion."

"The cut-back in oil price is going to help, "I'd expect, Peteragreed.

"That's not the half of it, old boy." Steven turned to glance backover his shoulder and he winked knowingly at Peter. "You can expectanother five per cent cut in six months, take my word on it. The Arabsand the Shah have come to their senses." Steven went on swiftly,

picking out those types of industry which would benefit mostdramatically from the reduction in crude prices, then selecting theleading companies in those sectors. If you have a few pounds lyingidle, that's where to put it." Steven's whole personality seemed tochange when he spoke like this of power and great wealth. Then he cameout from behind the fao de of the English country squire which he wasusually at such pains to cultivate; the glitter in his eyes was nowundisguised and his bushy mustache bristled like the whiskers of somebig dangerous predator.

He was still talking quickly and persuasively as they left the woodsand began to cross the open fields towards the ruins of the Roman campon the crest of the low hills.

These people have still to be told what to do, you know. Those damnedshop stewards up in Westminster may have thrown the Empire away,

but we still have our responsibilities." Steven changed the Purdeyshotgun from one arm to the other, carrying it in the crook of the arm,the gun broken open and the shining brass caps of the cartridgesshowing in the breeches. Government only by those fit to govern."Steven enlarged on that for a few minutes.

Then suddenly Steven fell silent, almost as though he had suddenlydecided that he had spoken too much, even to somebody as trusted as hisown younger twin. Peter was silent also, trudging up the curve of thehill with his boots squelching in the soft damp earth. There wassomething completely unreal about the moment, walking over wellremembered ground in the beautiful mellow sunlight of an

English spring afternoon with a man he had known from the day of hisbirth and yet perhaps had never known at all.

It was not the first time he had heard Steven talk like this, and yetperhaps it was the first time he had ever listened. He shivered andSteven glanced at him.

"Cold?" A "Goose walked over my grave," Peter explained, and

Steven nodded as they clambered up the shallow earth bank that markedthe perimeter of the Roman camp.

They stood on the lip under the branches of a lovely copper beech,

resplendent in its new spring growth of russet.

Steven was breathing hard from the pull up the hill, that extra weightwas already beginning to tell. There was a spot of high unhealthycolour in each cheek, and little blisters of sweat speckled his chin.

He closed the breech of the shotgun with a metallic clash, and leanedthe weapon against the trunk of the copper beech as he struggled toregain his breath.

Peter moved across casually and propped his shoulder against the copperbeech, but his thumbs were hooked into the lapels of the duffle coat,not thrust into pockets, and he was still in balance, weight slightlyforward on the balls of his feet. Although he seemed to be entirelyrelaxed and at rest he was in fact coiled like a spring,

poised on the brink of violent action and the shotgun was within easyreach of his right hand.

He had seen that Steven had loaded with number four shot. At ten pacesit would disembowel a man. The safety catch on the top of the pistolgrip of the butt engaged automatically when the breech was opened andclosed again, but the right thumb would instinctively slip the catchforward as the hand closed on the grip.

Steven took a silver cigarette case from the side pocket of his coatand tapped down a cigarette on the lid.

"Damned shame about Magda Altmann," he said gruffly, not meeting

Peter's eyes.

"Yes, Peter agreed softly.

"Glad they handled it in a civilized fashion. Could have made itawkward for you, you know."

"I suppose they could have," Peter agreed.

"What about your job at Narmco?"

"I don't know yet. I will not know until I get back to Brussels."

"Well, my offer still stands, old boy. I could do with a bit of help.I really could. Somebody I could trust. You'd be doing me afavour."

"Damned decent of you, Steven."

"No, really, I mean it." Steven lit the cigarette with a gold Dunhilllighter and inhaled with evident pleasure, and after a moment Peterasked him: "I hope you were not in a heavy position in Altmann stock.

I see it has taken an awful tumble." It's strange that," Steven shookhis head. "Pulled out of Altmann's a few weeks ago, actually. Neededthe money for San Istaban."

"Lucky," Peter murmured, or much more than luck. He wondered whySteven admitted the share transaction so readily. Of course" herealized, "it would have been very substantial and therefore easilytraced." He studied his brother now, staring at him with a slightscowl of concentration. Was it possible? he asked himself.

Could Steven really have masterminded something so complex, whereideology and self-interest and delusions of omnipotence seemed soinextricably snarled and entwined.

"What is it, old boy?" Steven asked, frowning slightly in sympathy.

"I was just thinking that the whole concept and execution has beenincredible, Steven. I would never have suspected you were capable ofit."

"I'm sorry, Peter. I don't understand. What are you talking about?"

"Caliph," Peter said softly.

It was there! Peter saw it instantly. The instant of utter stillness,like a startled jungle animal but the flinch of the eyes,

followed immediately by the effort of control.

The expression of Steven's face had not altered, the little frown ofpolite inquiry held perfectly, then turning slowly, deeper intopuzzlement.

"I'm afraid you just lost me there, old chap." It was superbly done.Despite himself Peter was impressed. There were depths to his brotherwhich he had never suspected but that was his own omission.

No matter which way you looked at it, it took an extraordinary abilityto achieve what Steven had achieved in less than twenty years, againstthe most appalling odds. No matter how he had done it, it was theworking of a particular type of genius.

He was capable of running Caliph, Peter accepted the fact at last andimmediately had a focal point for the corroding hatred he had carriedwithin him for so long.

"Your only mistake so far, Steven, was to let Aaron Altmann know yourname," Peter went on quietly. "I suspect you did not then know that hewas a Mossad agent, and that your name would go straight onto theIsraeli intelligence computer. Nobody, nothing, can ever wipe it fromthe memory rolls, Steven. You are known." Steven's eyes flickereddown to the shotgun; it was instinctive, uncontrollable, the finalconfirmation if Peter needed one.

"No, Steven. That's not for you." Peter shook his head.

"That's my work. You're fat and out of condition, and you have neverhad the training. You must stick to hiring others to do the actualkilling. You wouldn't even get a hand on it." Steven's eyes dartedback to his brother's face. Still the expression of his face had notaltered.

"I think you've gone out of your head, old boy." Peter ignored it.

"You of all people should know that I am capable of killing anybody.

You have conditioned me to that."

"We are getting into an awful tangle now," Steven protested. "What onearth should you want to kill anybody for?"

"Steven, you are insulting both of us. I know. There is no point ingoing on with the act. We have to work out between us what we aregoing to do about it." He had phrased it carefully, offering thechance of compromise. He saw the waver of doubt in Steven's eyes, theslight twist of his mouth, as he struggled to reach a decision.

But please do not underestimate the danger you are in, Steven." As hespoke Peter produced an old worn pair of dark leather gloves from hispocket and began to pull them on. There was something infinitelymenacing in that simple act, and again Steven's eyes were drawnirresistibly.

"Why are you doing that?" For the first time Steven's voice croakedslightly.

"Why, Steven? It is always dangerous to carry a loaded shotgun overmuddy and uneven ground."

"You couldn't do it, not in cold blood. "The edge of terror was inSteven's voice.

"Why not? You had no such qualms with Prince Hassled Abdel

Hayek."

"I am your brother he was only a bloody wag--2 Steven choked it off,staring now at Peter with stricken eyes, the expression of his facebeginning at last to crack and crumb leas he realized that he had madethe fateful admission.

Peter reached for the shotgun without taking his eyes from hisbrother's.

Peter. Don't you see? There is over four billions of Britishinvestment in that country, another three billions of American money.

It's the major world producer of gold and uranium, chrome and a dozenother strategic minerals. My God, Peter. Those ham-handed oafs incontrol now are on a suicide course. We had to take it away fromthem,

and put in a controllable government. If we don't do that the Redswill have it all within ten years probably much less."

"You had an alternative government chosen?"

"Of course," Steven told him urgently,

persuasively, watching the shotgun that Peter still held low across hiships. "It was planned in every detail. It took two years."

It was a matter of survival. They were destroying Western civilizationwith their childlike irresponsibility.

Drunk with power, they were no longer amenable to reason, like spoiledchildren in a sweet shop we had to put a stop to it, or face abreakdown of the capitalist system. They have probably doneirreparable damage to the prestige of the dollar, they have takensterling hostage and hold it in daily jeopardy with the threat ofwithdrawing those astronomic balances from London. We had to bringthem to their senses, and look how small a price. We can reduce theprice of crude oil gradually to its 1970 level. We can restore sanityto the currencies of the Western world and secure real growth andprosperity for hundreds of millions of peoples all at the cost of asingle life."

"And anyway, he was only a bloody wag. Wasn't he?"

Peter agreed reasonably.

"Look here, Peter. I said that but I didn't mean it. You are beingunreasonable."

"I will try not to be," Peter assured him mildly.

"Tell me where it goes from here. Who do you bring under control nextthe British Trade Union movement, perhaps?" And Steven stared at himwordlessly for a moment.

"Damn it, Peter. That was a hell of a guess. But could you imagine ifwe had a five-year wage freeze, and no industrial action during thattime. It's them or us, Peter.

We could get back to being one of the major industrial powers of theWestern world. Great Britain! We could be that again."

"You are very convincing, Steven," Peter acknowledged.

"There are only a few details that worry me a little."

"What are they, Peter?"

"Why was it necessary to arrange the murder of Kingston

Parker and Magda Altmann-" Steven stared at him, his jaw unhingingslightly and the hard line of his mouth going slack withastonishment.

"No," he shook his head. "That's not so." and why was it necessary tokill Baron Altmann, and torture him to death?"

"That was not my doing all right, it was done. And I knew it was donebut I had nothing to do with it, Peter.

Not the murder at least. Oh God, all right I knew it had to be done,but-His voice tailed off, and he stared helplessly at Peter.

"I cannot, Peter. You don't understand what might happen, what willhappen if I tell you-" Peter slid the safety catch off the Purdeyshotgun. The click of the mechanism was unnaturally loud in thesilence, and Steven Stride started and stepped back a pace, blinking athis brother, fastening all his attention on Peter's eyes.

"God,"he whispered. "You would do it too."

"Tell me about Aaron

Altmann."

"Can I have another cigarette?" Peter nodded and Steven lit it withhands that trembled very slightly.

"You have to understand how it worked, before I can explain."

"Tell me how it worked," Peter invited.

"I was recruited-"

"Steven, don't lie to me you are Caliph."

"No, God, no, Peter. You have it all wrong," Steven cried. "It's achain. I am only a link in Caliph's chain. I am not Caliph."

"You are a part of Caliph, then?"

"Only a link in the chain," Steven repeated vehemently.

"Tell me, Peter invited with a small movement of the shotgun barrelthat drew Steven's eyes immediately.

"There is a man I have known a long time. We have worked togetherbefore. A man with greater wealth and influence than I have. It wasnot an immediate thing. It grew out of many discussions andconversations over a long time, years, in which we both voiced ourconcern with the way that power had shifted to blocks of persons unfitto wield it-"

"Very well," Steven agreed. Well, finally this man asked me if I wouldbe prepared to join an association of Western world political andindustrial leaders dedicated to restoring power to the hands of thosefitted by training and upbringing to govern."

"Who was this man?"

"Peter, I cannot tell you."

"You have no choice," Peter told him, and there was a long moment asthey locked eyes and wills; then Steven sighed in capitulation.

"It was-" The name was that of a mining magnate who controlled most ofthe free world supply of nuclear fuel and gold and precious stones.

"So he is the one who would have been in control of the new South

African government with which you intended replacing the present regimein that country, if the taking of 070 had succeeded?" Peterdemanded,

and Steven nodded wordlessly.

"All right," Peter nodded. "Go on."

"He had been recruited as I

was," Steven explained. "But I was never to know by whom. In myturn

I was to recruit another desirable member but I would be the only onewho knew who that was. It was how the security of the chain was to bemaintained. Each link would know only the one above and below him, theman who had recruited him and the one who he recruited in his turn-"

"Caliph?" Peter demanded. "What about Caliph?"

"Nobody knows who he is."

"Yet he must know who you are."

"Yes, of course."

"Then there must be some way for you to get a message to Caliph," Peterinsisted. "For instance, when you recruit a new member, you must beable to pass on the information?

"That was a disaster. I chose Aaron as the man I would recruit. Heseemed exactly the kind of man we needed. I had known him for years. Iknew he could be very tough when it was necessary. So I

approached him. He seemed very eager at first, leading me on. Gettingme to explain the way Caliph would work. I was delighted to haverecruited such an important man. He intimated that he would contributetwenty-five million dollars to the funds of the association, so I

passed a message to Caliph. I told him that I had almost succeeded inrecruiting Baron Altmann-" Steven stopped nervously, and dropped thestub of his cigarette onto the damp turf, grinding it out under hisheel.

"What happened then?" Peter demanded.

"Caliph responded immediately. I was ordered to break off all contactwith Aaron Altmann at once. I realized I must have chosen apotentially dangerous person. You tell me now he was Mossad. I didnot know that but Caliph must have known it. I did as I was told anddropped Aaron like a hot chestnut and four days later he was abducted.I had nothing to do with it, Peter. I swear to you. I

liked the man immensely. I admired him-"

"Yet he was abducted and horribly tortured. You must have known thatCaliph had done it, and that you were responsible?"

"Yes." Steven said the word flatly, without evasion. Peter felt asmall stir of admiration for that.

"They tortured him to find out if he had passed the information you hadgiven him about Caliph to Mossad," Peter insisted.

"Yes I expect so. I do not know."

"If the picture I have of

Aaron Altmann was correct they received no information from him."

"No.

He was like that. They must have lost patience with him in the end todo what they did to him. It was my first moment of disillusionmentwith Caliph," Steven muttered sombrely.

They were both silent now, until Peter burst out angrily.

"My God, Steven, can't you see what a disgusting business you are mixedup in? "And Steven was mute. "Couldn't you see it?" Peter insisted,the anger raw in his voice. "Couldn't you realize it from thebeginning?"

"Not at the beginning." Steven shook his head miserably.

"It seemed a brilliant solution for all the diseases of the

Western world and then once I began it was like being on board aspeeding express train. It was just impossible to get off again."

"All right. So then you tried to have me assassinated on theRambouillet road?"

"Good God, no." Steven was truly appalled. "You're my brother,

good God-"

"Caliph did it to stop me getting close to Aaron's widow who was out toavenge him."

"I didn't know a thing about it, I swear to you. If Caliph did it, heknew better than to let me in on it." Steven was pleading now. "Youmust believe that." Peter felt a softening of his resolve, but forcedback the knowledge that this man was his brother, someone who had beenvery dear over a lifetime.

"What was your next operation for Caliph then?" He asked withoutallowing the softness to reach his voice.

Melissa-Jane. I love her like one of my own daughters. You must knowthat. I had no idea it was Caliph." Steven was pleading wildly now.

You have to believe me. I would never have allowed that to happen.That is too horrible." Peter watched him with a steely merciless glintof blue in his eyes, cold and cutting as the edge of the executioner'sblade.

"I will do anything to prove to you I had nothing to do with

Melissa-Jane. Anything you say, Peter. I'll take any chance to proveit to you. I swear it to you." Steven Stride's dismay and sinceritywere beyond question. His face was drained of all colour and his lipswere marble white and trembling with the strength of his denial.

Peter handed the shotgun to his brother without a word.

Startled, Steven held it for a moment at arm's length.

"You are in bad trouble, Steven," Peter said quietly. He knew thatfrom now on he needed Steven's unreserved and whole-hearted commitment.He could not be forced to do what he must do at the point of ashotgun.

Steven recognized the gesture, and slowly lowered the gun. With histhumb he pushed across the breech-locking mechanism, and the weaponhinged open. He pulled the cartridges from the double eyes of thebreeches and dropped them into the pocket of his shooting jacket.

"Let's get down to the house, Steven said, his voice still unsteadywith the trauma of the last minutes. "I need a stiff whisky-"

"There was a log fire burning in the deep walk-in fireplace of Steven'sstudy. The portals were magnificently carved altar surrounds from asixteenth century German church, salvaged from the ruins of World War

II

Allied bombing and purchased by Steven from a Spanish dealer, after-having been smuggled out through Switzerland.

Opposite the fireplace, bow windows with leaded panes and ancient wavyglass looked out over the rose garden.

The other two walls housed Steven's collection of rare books, eachboxed in its individual leather-bound container and lettered in goldleaf. The shelves reached from floor to the high moulded ceiling. Itwas a passion that the brothers shared.

Steven stood now in the fireplace with his back to the flames, one handclasped in the small of his back, hoisting up the skirts of his tweedjacket to warm his backside. In the other hand he held a deep crystaltumbler, still half filled with whisky, hardly diluted by the soda hehad dashed into it from the syphon.

Steven still looked shaken and pale, and every few minutes he shivereduncontrollably, although the room was oppressively heated by theblazing fire and all the windows were closed tightly.

Peter sprawled in the brocade-upholstered Louis Quatorze chair acrossthe room, his legs thrust out straight and crossed at the ankles, handsthrust deeply into his pockets, and his chin lowered on his chest indeep thought.

"How much was your contribution to Caliph's war chest?" Peter askedabruptly.

"I was not in the same class as Aaron Altmann," Steven answeredquietly. "I pledged five millions in sterling over five years."

"So we must imagine a network extending across all internationalboundaries.

Powerful men in every country, each contributing enormous sums of moneyand almost unlimited information and influence-" Steven nodded and tookanother swallow of his dark, toned whisky.

There is no reason to believe that it was only one man in each country.There may be a dozen in England, another dozen in Western

Germany, fifty in the United States-"

"It's possible," Steven agreed.

"So that Caliph could very easily have arranged the kidnapping of

Melissa-Jane through another of his chain in this country."

"You must believe I had nothing to do with it, Peter." Peter dismissedthis new protestation impatiently, and went on thinking out aloud.

"It is still possible that Caliph is a committee of the founder membersnot one man at all."

"I don't think so--" Steven hesitated.

I had a very strong impression that it all was one man. I do not thinka committee would be capable of such swift and determined action." Heshook his head, trying to cast his mind back for the exact words whichhad formed his impressions. You must remember that I have onlydiscussed Caliph with one other person, the man who recruited me.

However, you can be certain that we discussed it in depth and over anextended period. I was not about to put out five million on somethingthat didn't satisfy me entirely. No, it was one man who would make thedecision for all of us but the decisions would be in the interest ofall."

"Yet there was no guarantee that any individual member of the chainwould be informed of every decision?"

"No. Of course not. That would have been madness.

Security was the key to success."

"You could trust somebody you had never met, whose identity was hiddenfrom you you could trust him with vast sums of money, and the destinyof the world as we know it?"

Steven hesitated again as if seeking the right words.

"Caliph has an aura that seems to envelop all of us. The man whorecruited me-" Steven seemed reluctant to repeat the name again, proofto Peter of the influence that Caliph exerted is a man whosejudgement

I respect tremendously. He was convinced, and this helped to convinceme."

"What do you think now?" Peter asked abruptly. "Are you stillconvinced?" Steven drained the whisky glass, and then smoothed hismustache with a little nervous gesture.

"Come on, Steven," Peter encouraged him.

"I still think Caliph had the right idea " he said reluctantly.

The rules have changed, Peter. We were fighting for survival of theworld as we know it. We were merely playing to the new morality-" Hecrossed to the silver tray on the corner of his desk and refilled thewhisky glass.

Up to now we have had one hand tied behind our backs, while the

Reds and the extreme left and the members of the Third World have hadboth hands to fight with and a dagger in each one. All Caliph did wasto take off our shackles."

"What has made you change your mind then?"

Peter asked.

"I'm not sure that I have changed my mind." Steven turned back to facehim. "I still think it was the right idea-"

"But?" Peter insisted.

Steven shrugged. "The murder of Aaron Altmann, the mutilation of

Melissa-Jane-" He hesitated. Other acts of which I suspect Caliph wasthe originator. They were not for the common good. They were merelyto protect Caliph's personal safety, or to satisfy what I am beginningto believe is vaunted and unbridled lust for power." Steven shook hishead again. "I believed Caliph to be noble and dedicated but there isno nobility in some of the things he has done.

He has acted like a common criminal. He has acted for personaladvantage and glorification. I believe in the concept of Caliph but Iknow now we have chosen the wrong man. He has been corrupted by thepower that we placed in to his hands." Peter listened to himcarefully, his head cocked to one side, his blue eyes clear and quietlysearching.

"All right, Steven. So we discover that Caliph is not a deity but aman with a man's petty greed and self-interest."

"Yes, I suppose

I do." Steven's handsome florid face was heavy with regret. "Caliphis not what I believed he might be "Do you accept now that he is eviltruly evil?"

"Yes, I accept that. "Then, fiercely, "But God, how I wish

Caliph had been what I believed he was at the beginning." Peter couldunderstand that and he nodded.

"It was what this crazy world of ours needed-" Steven went on bitterly.We need somebody, a strong man to tell us what to do. I

thought it was Caliph. I wanted it so badly to be him."

"So now, do you accept that Caliph was not that man?"

"Yes," said Steven simply.

"But if there was a man like that I would follow him again,

unquestioningly."

"You said you would do anything to prove to me that you had nothing todo with Melissa-Jane will you help me to destroy

Caliph?"

"Yes." Steven did not hesitate.

"There will be great personal risk," Peter pointed out, and now

Steven met his eyes steadily.

"I know that. I know Caliph better than you." Peter found that hisaffection for his brother was now reinforced with admiration.

Steven lacked very few of the manly virtues, he thought. He hadstrength and courage and brains, perhaps his major vice was that he hadtoo much of each.

"What do you want me to do, Peter?"

"I want you to arrange a meeting with Caliph face to face."

"Impossible." Steven dismissed it immediately.

"You said that you had means of getting a message to him?"

"Yes,

but Caliph would never agree to a meeting."

"Steven, what is the single the only weakness that Caliph has shown sofar?"

"He has shown no weakness."

"Yes, he has," Peter denied.

"What is it?"

"He is obsessed with protecting his personal identity and safety,"Peter pointed out. "As soon as that is threatened, he immediatelyreverts to abduction and torture and murder."

"That isn't a weakness-" Steven pointed out. "It's a strength."

"If you can get a message to him that his identity is in jeopardy. Thatsomebody, an enemy, has penetrated his security screen and has managedto get close to him," Peter suggested, and Steven considered it longand carefully.

"He would react very strongly," Steven agreed. "But it would not takehim very long to find out that I was lying.

That would immediately discredit me, and as you said earlier I

would be at grave risk for no good reason."

"It isn't a lie," Peter told him grimly. "There is a Mossad agentclose to Caliph. Very close to him."

"In that case-" Steven thought it out again Caliph would probablyalready be suspicious and would be prepared to accept my warning.However, all he would do would be to ask me to give him the name passit to him along his usual communications channel. That would be it."

"You would refuse to pass the information except face to face. Youwill protest that the information is much too sensitive. You wouldprotest that your personal safety was at stake. What would be hisreaction?"

"I would expect him to put pressure on me to divulge the name. If youresisted?"

"I suppose he would have to agree to a meeting. As you have pointedout, it is his major obsession. But, if he met me face to face, hisidentity would be revealed anyway."

"Think, Steven. You know how his mind works." It took a few seconds,then Steven's expression changed, consternation twisting his lips asthough he was in pain.

"Good God of course. If I forced him to a face-to-face meeting,

I would be highly unlikely to survive it."

"Exactly," Peter nodded.

"If we baited it with something absolutely irresistible, Caliph wouldhave to agree to meet you but he would make arrangements to have yousilenced immediately, before you had a chance to pass on his identityto anyone else."

"Hell, Peter, this is creepy. As you told me earlier today, I am fatand out of condition. I wouldn't be much of a match against Caliph."

"Caliph would take that into consideration when deciding whether tomeet you or not," Peter agreed.

"It sounds like suicide," Steven persisted.

"You just signed on to be tough," Peter reminded him.

"Tough is one thing, stupid is another."

"You would be in no danger until you delivered the message. Caliphwould not dare dispose of you until you delivered your message," Peterpointed out. "And I

give you my word that I will never call on you to go to an assignationwith Caliph."

"I can't ask for more than that, I suppose." Steven threw up hishands. "When do you want me to contact him?"

"I was just thinking. If only Caliph had been somebody like you,Peter."

"huh?" For the first time Peter was truly startled.

"The warrior king utterly ruthless in the pursuit of the vision ofjustice and rightness and duty."

"I am not like that." Peter denied it.

"Yes, you are," Steven said positively. "You are the type of man thatI hoped Caliph might be. The type of man we needed." Peter had topresume that Caliph was watching him.

After his murder of Baroness Altmann, Caliph's interest would beintense. Peter had to act predictably.

He caught the early Monday flight back to Brussels, and before middaywas at his desk in Narmco headquarters.

Here also he was the centre of much interest and power play

Altmann Industries had lost its chief executive and there were strongundercurrents and court intrigues already 4 afoot. Despite a number ofsubtle approaches Peter stayed aloof from the struggle.

On Tuesday evening Peter picked up the newspaper from the news-stand inthe Hilton lobby. Steven's contact request was in the small-adssection.

children of Israel asked counsel of the Lord, saying, shall I go upagain to battle? judges. 20:23.

The quotation that Caliph had chosen seemed to epitomize his view ofhimself. He saw himself as godlike, set high above his fellow men.

Steven had explained to Peter that Caliph took up to forty-eight hoursto answer.

Steven would wait each day after the appearance of the personalannouncement at his desk in his office suite in Leadenhall Street, fromnoon until twenty minutes past the hour. He would have no visitors norappointments for that time,

and he would make certain that his direct unlisted telephone line wasun-engaged to receive the incoming contact.

There was no contact that Wednesday, but Steven had not expected one.On the Thursday Steven paced restlessly up and down the antique silkKirman carpet as he waited for the call. He was already wearing thejacket of his suit, and his bowler and rolled umbrella were on thecorner of the ornate French ormolu desk that squatted like some benignmonster beneath the windows which looked across the street at Lloyds

Exchange.

Steven Stride was afraid. He acknowledged the fact with directself-honesty. Intrigue was part of his existence, had been for nearlyall of his life but always the game had been played to certain rules.

He knew he was entering a new jungle, a savage wilderness where thosefew rules ceased entirely to exist. He was going in over his head;

Peter had pointed out to him that this was not his way, and he knew

Peter was right. Peter was right, and Steven was afraid as he hadnever been in his life. Yet he knew that he was going ahead with it.

He had heard that it was the mark of true courage to be able to meetand acknowledge fear, and yet control it sufficiently to be able to goahead and do what duty dictated must be done.

He did not feel like a brave man.

The telephone rang once, too loud, too shrill and every nerve in hisbody jumped taut and he found himself frozen, paralysed with fear inthe centre of the beautiful and precious carpet.

The telephone rang again, the insistent double note sounded in his earslike the peal of doom, and he felt his bowels filled with the hot oilyslime of fear, hardly to be contained.

The telephone rang the third time, and with an enormous effort heforced himself to make the three paces to his desk.

He lifted the telephone receiver, and heard the sharp chimes of theinterference from the public telephone system.

Stride: he said. His voice was strained, high and almost shrill,

and he heard the drop of the coin.

The voice terrified him. It was an electronic drone, inhuman,

without gender, without the timbre of living emotion, without neitherhigh nor low notes.

"Aldgate and Leadenhall Street,"said the voice.

Steven repeated the rendezvous and immediately the connection wasbroken.

Steven dropped the receiver onto its cradle and snatched up his bowlerand umbrella as he hurried to the door.

His secretary looked up at him and smiled expectantly.

She was a handsome grey-haired woman who had been with Steven tenyears.

"Sir?" She still called him that.

I'm popping out for half an hour, May," Steven told her.

"Look after the shop, there is a dear." And he stepped into hisprivate elevator and rode down swiftly to the underground garage wherehis Rolls was kept, together with the private vehicles of his seniorexecutives.

In the elevator mirror he checked the exact angle of his bowler, aslightly raffish tilt over the right eye, and rearranged the bloom ofthe crimson carnation in the buttonhole of the dark blue Savile Rowsuit with its faint and elegant chalk stripe. It was important that helooked and acted entirely naturally during the next few minutes.

His staff would remark on any departure from the normal.

In the garage he did not approach the dark-maroon Rolls-Royce whichglowed in the subdued lighting like some precious gem. Instead he wenttowards the wicket gate in the steel roll-up garage door, and thedoorman in his little glassed cubicle beside the door looked up fromhis football pools coupons, recognized the master and leaped to hisfeet.

"Afternoon, guy." Good day, Harold. I won't be taking the car.

just stepping out for a few minutes." He stepped over the threshold ofthe gate, into the street and turned left, down towards the junctionof

Leadenhall Street and Aldgate. He walked fast, without seeming tohurry. Caliph spaced his intervals very tight, to make it difficultfor the subject to pass a message to a surveillance unit. Steven knewhe had only minutes to get from his office to the call box on thecorner. Caliph seemed to know exactly how long it would take him.

The telephone in the red-framed and glass call box started to ring whenhe was still twenty paces away. Steven ran the distance.

"Stride," he said, his voice slightly puffed with exertion, andimmediately the coin dropped and the same electronic droning voice gavehim the next contact point. It was the public call box at the High

Street entrance to Aid ate tube station. Steven confirmed and thevoice troubled him deeply, it sounded like that of a robot from somescience fiction movie. It would not have been so bad if he had felthuman contact.

The two receiving stations, neither of which was predictable, and thedistances between them, had been carefully calculated to make it onlyjust possible to reach them in time, to make it impossible for the callto be traced while the line was still open. Caliph or his agent wasclearly moving from one call box to the next in another part of thecity. Tracing them even a minute after he had left would be of nopossible use in trying to establish identity.

The voice distorter that Caliph was using was a simple device no biggerthan a small pocket calculator. Peter had told Steven that it could bepurchased from a number of firms specializing in electronicsurveillance, security and counter-measure equipment. It cost lessthan fifty dollars, and so altered the human voice phasing out allsound outside the middle range that even the most sophisticatedrecording device would not be able to lift a useable voice.

print to compare with a computer bank memory. It would not even beable to determine whether the speaker was a man, a woman or a child.

Steven had an unusually clear path to the station, and found himselfwaiting outside the call box in the crowded entrance to the stationwhile a young man in paint-speckled overalls, with long greasy blondhair, finished his conversation. Caliph's system allowed for prior useof the chosen public telephone, and as soon as the scruffy youthfinished his leisurely chat, Steven pushed into the booth and made ashow of consulting the directory.

The phone rang, and even though he was expecting it, Steven jumped withshock. He was perspiring now, with the walk and the tension, and hisvoice was ragged as he snatched the receiver.

"Stride," he gulped.

The coin dropped and Caliph's impersonal tones chilled him again.

"Yesr :1 have a message." Yes?"

"There is danger for Caliph."

"Yesr "A government intelligence agency has put an agent close tohim,

close enough to be extremely dangerous."

"Say the source of your information."

"My brother. General Peter Stride." Peter had instructed him to tellthe truth, as much as was possible.

"Say the government agency involved."

"Negative. The information is too sensitive. I must have assurancethat Caliph receives it personally."

"Say the name or position of the enemy agent."

"Negative.

For the same reasons." Steven glanced at his gold Cartier tank watchwith its black alligator strap. They had been speaking for fifteenseconds he knew the contact would not last longer than thirty seconds.Caliph would not risk exposure beyond that time. He did not wait forthe next question or instruction.

"I will pass the information only to Caliph, and I must be certain itis him, not one of his agents. I request a personal meeting."

"That is not possible, "droned the inhuman voice.

"Then Caliph will be in great personal danger." Steven found courageto say it.

"I repeat, say the name and position of enemy agent." Twenty-fiveseconds had passed.

"I say again, negative. You must arrange a face-to-face meeting fortransfer of this information." A single droplet of sweat broke fromthe hairline of Steven's temple and ran down his cheek. He felt asthough he were suffocating in the claustrophobic little telephonebox.

"You will be contacted," droned the voice and the line clicked dead.

Steven took the white silk handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbedat his face. Then he carefully rearranged the scrap of silk in hispocket, not folded into neat spikes but with a deliberately casualdrape.

He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin and left the booth. Now forthe first time he felt like a brave man. It was a feeling he relished,and he stepped out boldly swinging the rolled umbrella with a smallflourish at each pace.

Peter had been within call of the telephone all that week, during thehours of involvement with the series of Narmco projects which he hadput in train before his departure for Tahiti, and which all seemed tobe maturing simultaneously. There were meetings that began in themorning and lasted until after dark, there were two separate dayjourneys, one to Oslo and another to Frankfurt, catching the earlybusinessman's plane and back in the Narmco office before evening.

Always he was within reach of a telephone and Steven Stride knew thenumber; even when he was in the NATO Officers Club gymnasium,

sharpening his body to peak physical condition, or practising untilafter midnight in the underground pistol range until the 9-mm. Cobrawas an extension of his hands either hand, left or right, equallycapable of grouping the X circle at fifty metres, from any position,standing,

kneeling or prone, always he was within reach of the telephone.

Peter felt like a prize fighter in training camp, concentrating all hisattention on the preparations for the confrontation he knew layahead.

At last the weekend loomed, with the prospect of being boring andfrustrating. He refused invitations to visit the country home of oneof his Narmco colleagues, another to fly down to Paris for the Saturdayracing and he stayed alone in the Hilton suite, waiting for the callfrom Steven.

On Sunday morning he had all the papers sent up to his room,

English and American and French German which he could read better thanhe spoke, and even the Dutch and Italian papers which he could stumblethrough haltingly, missing every third word or so.

He went through them carefully, trying to find a hint of Caliph'sactivity. New abductions, hijackings or other acts which might givehim a lead to some new Caliph-dominated pressures.

Italy was in a political uproar. The confusion so great that he couldonly guess at how much of it was from the left and how much from theright. There had been an assassination in Naples of five known membersof the Terrorist Red Brigade, all five taken out neatly with a singlegrenade.

The grenade type had been determined as standard NATO issue, and theexecution had been in the kitchen of a Red Brigade safe apartment in aslum area of the city. The police had no leads. It sounded like

Caliph. There was no reason to believe that his "chain" did notinclude prominent Italian businessmen. A millionaire Italian living inhis own country had to be the earth's most endangered species after theblue whale, Peter thought wryly, and they might have called on Caliphto go on the offensive.

Peter finished the continental papers, and turned with relief to theEnglish and American. It was a little before Sunday noon, and hewondered how he could live out the desolate hours until Mondaymorning.

He was certain that there would be no reply to Steven's request for ameeting before then.

He started on the English-language newspapers, spinning them out tocover the blank time ahead.

The British Leyland Motor Company strike was in its fifteenth week withno prospect of settlement. Now there was a case for Caliph,

Peter smiled wryly, remembering his discussion with Steven. Knock afew heads together for their own good.

There was only one other item of interest in his morning's reading.

The President of the United States had appointed a special negotiatorin another attempt to find a solution to the Israeli occupation of thedisputed territories in the Middle East. The man he had chosen wasDr.

Kingston Parker, who was described as a personal friend of the

President and one of the senior members of his inner circle ofadvisors, a man well thought of by all parties in the dispute, and anideal choice for the difficult job. Again Peter found himself inagreement. Kingston Parker's energies and resources seemedbottomless.

Peter dropped the last paper and found himself facing a void of boredomthat would extend through until the following day. There were threebooks he should read beside his bed, and the Hermes crocodile case washalf-filled with Narmco material, yet he knew that he would not be ableto concentrate not with the prospect of the confrontation with ("Caliphovershadowing all else.

He went through into the mirrored bathroom of the suite, and found thepackage that he had purchased the previous day in the cosmetic sectionof Galeries Anspach, one of the city's largest departmental stores.

The wig was of good-quality human hair, not the obviously shiny nylonsubstitute. It was in his own natural colour, but much longer thanPeter wore his hair. He arranged it carefully along his own hairline,and then set to work with a pair of scissors, trimming and tidying it.When he had it as close to his liking as possible, he began to tint thetemples with "Italian Boy" hair silvering.

It took him most of the afternoon, for he was in no hurry, and he wascritical of his own work. Every few minutes he consulted the snapshotwhich Melissa-Jane had taken with her new Polaroid camera,

It highlighted the resemblances of the two brothers, and also pointedout their physical differences. The natural hair colouring wasidentical but Steven's was fashionably longer, curling on his collar atthe back, and appreciably greyer at the temples and streaked at thefront.

Steven's face was heavier, with the first trace of jowls, and hiscolour was higher, perhaps the first ruddy warnings of heartmalfunction or merely the banner of good living in his cheeks. Yetwith the wig on his head, Peter's own face seemed much fuller.

Next Peter shaped the mustache, trimming it down into the infantryofficer model that Steven favoured. There had been a good selection ofartificial moustaches to choose from in the cosmetic section, amongst adisplay of artificial eyelashes and eyebrows, but none had been exactlyright.

Peter had to work on it carefully with the scissors, and then tint itwith a little silver.

When he fastened it in place with the special adhesive gum, the resultwas quite startling. The mustache filled out his face even further,and of course the eyes of the twins were almost exactly the same shapeand colour. Their noses were both straight and bony.

Peter's mouth was a little more generous, and did not have the samehard relentless line of lip but the mustache concealed much of that.

Peter stood back and examined himself in the full-length mirror.

He and Steven were within a quarter of an inch in height, they had thesame breadth of shoulder. Steven was heavier in the gut, and his neckwas thickening, giving him a thrusting bull-like set to his head andshoulders. Peter altered his stance slightly. It worked. He doubtedthat anybody who did not know both of them intimately would be able todetect the substitution. There was no reason to believe that Caliph orany of his closest lieutenants would have seen either Steven or Peterin the flesh.

He spent an hour practising Steven's gait, watching himself in themirror, trying to capture the buoyant cockiness of Steven'smovements,

searching for little personal mannerisms, the way Steven stood withboth hands clasped under the skirts of his jacket; the way he brushedhis mustache with one finger, from the parting under his nose left andright.

Clothing was not a- serious problem. Both brothers had used the sametailor since Sandhurst days, and Steven's dress habits were invariableand inviolable. Peter's knew exactly what he would wear in any givensituation.

Peter stripped off wig and mustache and repacked them carefully intheir Galeries Anspach plastic packets, then buttoned them into one ofthe interior divisions of the Hermes case.

Next he removed the Cobra parabellum from another division. It wasstill in the chamois leather holster, and he bounced the familiarweight of the weapon in the palm of his hand. Reluctantly he decidedhe could not take it with him. The meeting would almost certainly bein England, The contact that Steven had had on Thursday had clearlyoriginated in London. He had to believe the next contact would be inthat same city. He could not take the chance of walking through

British customs with a deadly weapon on his person. If he wasstopped,

there would be publicity.

It would instantly alert Caliph. He would be able to get anotherweapon from Thor Command once he was in England. Colin Noble wouldsupply him, just as soon as Peter explained the need, he was certain ofthat.

Peter went down and checked the Cobra pistol into the safe deposit boxof the hotel reception office, and returned to his room to face thewearying and indefinite wait. It was one of a soldier's duties towhich he had never entirely accustomed himself he always hated thewaiting.

However, he settled down to read Robert Asprey's War in the

Shadows, that definitive tome on the history and practice of guerrillawarfare down the ages. He managed to lose himself sufficiently to bemildly surprised when he glanced at his watch and saw it was aftereight o'clock. He ordered an omelette to be sent up by room service,

and ten seconds after he replaced the receiver, the telephone rang.

He thought it might be a query from the kitchen about his dinnerorder.

"Yes, what is it?" he demanded irritably.

"Peter?"

"Steven?"

"He has agreed to a meeting." Peter felt his heart lunge wildly.

"When? Where?"

"I don't know. I have to fly to Orly tomorrow.

There will be instructions for me at the airport." Caliph covering andbacktracking. Peter should have expected it. Desperately he cast hismind back to the layout of Orly Airport. He had to find a privateplace to meet Steven and make the change-over. He discarded swiftlythe idea of meeting in one of the lounges or washrooms. That left oneother location.

"What time will you be there?" Peter demanded.

"Cooks have got me onto the early flight. I'll be there at elevenfifteen."

"I'll be there before you" Peter told him. He knew the

Sabena timetable by heart and all senior Narmcc, executives hadspecial

VIP cards which assured a seat on any flight.

"I wil I book a room at the Air Hotel on the fourth floor of Orly

South terminal in your name," he told Steven now.

"I'll wait in the lobby. Go directly to the reception desk and ask foryour key. I will check behind you to make certain you are notfollowed. Do not acknowledge me in any way.

Have you got that, Steven?"

"Yes."

"Until tomorrow, then." Peter broke the connection, and went throughinto the bathroom. He studied his. own face in the mirror.

"Well, that takes care of getting a weapon from Thor." Caliph had notset the meeting in England. It was clear now that Paris was only astaging point, and that in his usual careful fashion Caliph would movethe subject on from there perhaps through one or more staging points,

to the final rendezvous.

The subject would go in unarmed, and unsupported and Peter was certainthat afterwards Caliph would take his usual pains to ensure that thesubject would be unable to carry back a report of the meeting.

I am drawing two cards inside for a straight flush, and Caliph is thedealer from a pack that he has had plenty of time to prepare, Peterthought coldly, but at least the waiting was over. He began to packhis toilet articles into the waterproof Gucci bag.

Sir Steven Stride marched into the lobby of Orly South Air Hotel atfive minutes past noon, and Peter smiled to himself inself-congratulation. Steven was wearing a blue double-breastedblazer,

white shirt and cricket-club tie, above grey woollen slacks and black

English handmade shoes none of your fancy Italian footwear for

Steven.

It was Steven's standard informal dress, and Peter had only been wrongabout the tie he had guessed that it would be an I Zingari pattern.Peter himself wore a doublebreaster and grey slacks under his trenchcoat and his shoes were black Barkers.

Steven's eyes flickered around the lobby, passing over Peter sitting ina far corner with a copy of Le Monde, then Steven moved authoritivelyto the reception desk.

"My name is Stride, do you have a reservation for me?" Steven spokeslowly, in rich plummy tones, for very few of these damned people spokeEnglish. The clerk checked swiftly, nodded, murmured a welcome andgave Steven the form and the key.

"Four One Six." Steven checked the number loudly enough for Peter tohear. Peter had been watching the entrance carefully; fortunatelythere had been very few guests entering the lobby during the fewminutes since Steven's arrival, and none of those could possibly havebeen Caliph surveillance. Of course, if this was a staging point, as

Peter was certain it was, then Caliph would have no reason to putsurveillance on Steven not until he got much closer to the ultimatedestination.

Steven moved to the elevator with a porter carrying his single smallvalise, and Peter drifted across and joined the small cluster of guestswaiting at the elevators.

He rode up shoulder to shoulder with Steven in the crowded elevator,neither of them acknowledging the other's existence, and when

Steven and the porter left at the fourth stage Peter rode on up threefloors, walked the length of the corridor and back, then took thedescending elevator to Steven's floor.

Steven had left the door to 416 off the catch, and' Peter pushed itopen and slipped in without knocking.

"My dear boy." Steven was in his shirt sleeves. He had switched onthe television, but now he turned down the sound volume and hurried togreet him with both affection and vast relief.

"No problems?" Peter asked.

"Like clockwork," Steven told him. "Would you like a drink? I

got a bottle in the duty-free." While he hunted for glasses in thebathroom, Peter checked the room swiftly. A view down towards thesquare functional buildings of the market that had replaced thepicturesque Les Halles in central Paris, matching curtains and coverson the twin beds, television and radio sets, between the beds, modernsoulless furniture it was a room, that was the most and the least thatcould be said for it.

Steven carried in the glasses and handed one to Peter.

"Cheers!" Peter tasted his whisky. It was too strong and the

Parisian tap water tasted of chlorine. He put it aside.

"How is Caliph going to get instructions to you?"

"Got them already." Steven went to his blazer, hanging over the backof the chair, and found a long white envelope in the inside pocket. -"This was left at the Air France Information Desk." Peter took theenvelope and as he split the flap he sank onto one of the armchairs.There were three items in the envelope.

A first-class Air France airline ticket, a voucher for achauffeur-driven limousine and a hotel reservation voucher.

The air ticket could have been purchased for cash at any Air

France outlet or agency, the limousine and hotel bookings could havebeen made equally anonymously.

There was no possibility of a trace back from any of these documents.

Peter opened the Air France ticket and read the destination.

Something began to crawl against his skin, like the loathsome touch ofbody vermin. He closed the ticket and checked the two vouchers; nowthe sick feeling of betrayal and evil spread through his entire body,

numbing his fingertips and coating the back of his tongue with a bittermetallic taste like copper salts.

The air ticket was for this evening's flight from Orly to

Ben-Gurion Airport in Israel, the hired-car voucher was good for asingle journey from there to Jerusalem, the hotel voucher was for aroom in the King David Hotel in that ancient and holy city.

"What is it, Peter?"

"Nothing," said Peter, only then aware that the sickness must haveshown on his face. "Jerusalem," he went on.

"Caliph wants you in Jerusalem." There was one person in Jerusalem atthat moment.

Somebody who had been in his thoughts almost unceasingly since last hehad embraced her in the darkness of Bora-Bora Island so very longago.

Caliph was in Jerusalem, and Magda Altmann was in Jerusalem and thesickness was heavy in the pit of his stomach.

The deviousness of Caliph.

No, he told himself firmly. I have travelled that road already.

It cannot be Magda.

The genius of Caliph, evil and effortless.

It is possible. He had to admit it then. With Caliph, anything ispossible. Every time Caliph shook the dice box the numbers changed,

different numbers, making different totals but always completelyplausible, always completely believable.

It was one of the basic proven theorems of his trade that a man,

any man, was blinded and deafened and rendered senseless by love.

Peter was in love, and he knew it.

All right. So now I have to try and free my mind and think it all overagain, as though I were not besotted.

"Peter, are you all right?" Steven demanded again, now with realconcern. It was impossible to think with Steven hovering over him. Hewould have to put it aside.

"I am going to Jerusalem in your place," Peter said.

"Come again, old boy?" We are changing places you and U "You won't getaway with it." Steven shook his head decidedly. "Caliph will take youon the full toss." Peter picked up his Hermes case and went throughinto the bathroom. He worked quickly with the wig and artificialmustache and then called.

"Steven, come here." They stood side by side and stared at themselvesin the mirror.

"Good God!" Steven grunted. Peter altered his stance slightly,

conforming more closely to his brother.

"That's incredible. Never knew you were such a good-looking brighter,"Steven chuckled, and wagged his head wonderingly. Peter imitated thegesture perfectly.

"Yes," Steven conceded. "It will work but how the hell did you know Iwould be wearing a blazer and greys?"

"Trick of the trade, Peter told him. "Don't worry about it.

Let's go through the paperwork now." In the bedroom they laid outtheir personal documents in two piles, and went swiftly through them.

The passport photographs would pass readily enough.

"You have to shave your soup-strainer," Peter told him, and Stevenstroked his mustache with one finger, left and right lingeringly,

regretfully.

"Is that absolutely necessary? Id feel like I was walking around inpublic with no trousers on." Peter took the slim gold ball-point fromhis inside pocket and a sheaf of hotel stationery from the drawer.

He studied Steven's signature in the passport for a minute, and thendashed it off on the top sheet.

"No." He shook his head, and tried again. It was like Steven's walk,cocky and confident, the "T" was crossed with a flourishing swordstroke of the pen.

In sixty seconds he had it perfected.

"With that wig on your head you could walk into my bank any day andsign for the whole damned bundle," Steven muttered uneasily. "Then gohome and climb into bed with Pat."

"Now, there is an idea." Peter looked thoughtful.

"Don't joke about it," Steven pleaded.

"Who's joking?" Peter went through the credit cards, club membershipcards, driver's licence and all the other clutter of civilizedexistence.

Steven's mastery of his brother's signature was not nearly aseffective, but after twenty minutes" practice was just adequate forhotel registration purposes.

"Here is the address of a hotel on the left bank. Magnificentrestaurant, and the management are very understanding if you shouldwant to invite a young lady up to your room for a drink."

"Perish the thought." Steven looked smug at the prospect.

"It should only be for a few days, Steven. Just keep very low.

Pay cash for everything. Keep clear of the George V or the Meurice,Le

Doyen and Maxim's all the places where they know you." They wentcarefully over the last details of the exchange of identity, while

Steven shaved off the mustache and anointed the bare patch tenderlywith Eau de Sauvage.

"You'd better move now," Peter told him at last. "Wear this--" It wasPeters buff trenchcoat that would cover his blazer. And let's changeties." Steven was ready, and he stood rather awkwardly by the door, inthe tightly fitting trenchcoat.

"Steven, can I ask you a question?" Peter did not know why he had toknow now, it had been buried so deeply for so long and yet at thismoment it was deadly important to know.

"Of course, old boy." Steven seemed to welcome the postponement of themoment of parting.

"Sandhurst." Peter tried to keep the embarrassment out of his voice."I never asked you before but you didn't do it, did you,

Steven?" Steven met his eyes calmly, steadily. "No, Peter. I did notdo it. My word on it." Peter took his brother's proffered right handand squeezed it hard. It was ridiculous to feel so relieved.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of it." Why do Englishmen have suchdifficulty talking to each other, Peter wondered, let alonecommunicating affection and gratitude?

"Well, I'll be getting along then," said Steven.

"Take a guard on your middle stump, and don't be caught in the slips,"Peter cautioned him with the old inanity.

"Count on it," said Steven, and went out into the passage, closing thedoor behind him firmly, leaving his brother to think about

Jerusalem.

the name had changed from Lad to BenGurion otherwise the

Arrivals Hall was as Peter remembered it. One of the few airports onthe globe which has sufficient luggage trolleys, so that the passengersdo not have to fight for possession.

In the Arrivals Hall there was a young Israeli driver with the name:

Sir Steven Stride printed in white chalk on a schoolboy's blackslate.

The driver wore a navy-blue cap with a black patent leather peak.

It was his only item of uniform, otherwise he was dressed in sandalsand a white cotton shirt. His English had the usual strong Americanturn to it, and his attitude was casual and friendly he might bedriving the limousine today, but tomorrow he could be at the controlsof a Centurion tank, and he was as good a man as his passenger anyday.

"Shalom, Shalom," he greeted Peter. "Is that all your luggage?"

"Yes." TeseMer. Let's go." He did not offer to push Peter'strolley,

but chatted amicably as he led him out to the limousine.

It was a stretched-out 240 D Mercedes Benz almost brand new,

lovingly polished but somebody had painted a pair of squinting eyes oneach side of the chrome three pointed star on the boot of thevehicle.

They had hardly pulled out through the airport gates when one of thecharacteristic aromas of Israel filled the cab of the Mercedes thesmell of orange blossom from the citrus orchards that lined each sideof the road.

For some reason the smell made Peter feel uneasy, a sensation of havingmissed something, of having neglected some vital aspect. He tried tothink it all out again, from the beginning, but the driver kept up arunning commentary as they pulled up the new double highway,

over the hills through the pine forests towards Jerusalem, and thevoice distracted him.

Peter wished he had kept the list that he had drawn up in the hotelroom at Orly instead of destroying it. He tried to reconstruct it inhis mind.

There were a dozen items on the plus side. The third was: Magda toldme about Cactus Flower. Would she have done so if she was Caliph?

And then directly opposite, in the'minus'column: If Magda is

Caliph, then "Cactus Flower" does not exist.

It was an invention for some undisclosed reason.

This was the item that pricked him like a burr in a woollen sock.

He kept coming back to it; there was a link missing from the logic ofit and he tried to tease it loose. It was there just below the surfaceof his mind, and he knew instinctively that if he missed it theconsequences would be dire.

The driver kept chatting, turning to glance back at him every fewminutes with a cheerful demand for recognition.

"That's right, isn't it?" Peter grunted. The man was irritating himthe missing item was there, just beginning to surface. He could seethe shape of it. Why had the smell of orange blossom worried him?

The smell of flowers? Cactus flower? There was something there,

something missing from the list.

If Magda is not Caliph then- Was that it? He was not certain. " Willthat be all right, then?" The driver was insisting again.

"I'm sorry what was that?"

"I said, I had to drop a parcel off at my mother-in-law," the driverexplained again. "It's from my wife."

"Can't you do that on your way back?"

"I'm not going back tonight-" The driver grinned winningly over hisshoulder.

right on our way. It won't take five minutes. I promised my wife

I'd get it to her mother today."

"Oh, very well then," Peter snapped.

There was something about the man he did not like, and he had losttrack of the item that had been worrying him.

He felt as though he was in a chess game with a vastly superioropponent, and he had overlooked a castle on an open file, or a knightin a position to fork simultaneous check on his king and queen.

"We turn off here," the driver explained, and swung off into a sectionof new apartment blocks, all of them built of the custard-yellowJerusalem stone, row upon row Of them, Israel's desperate attempt tohouse its new citizens. At this time of evening the streets weredeserted, as families gathered for the evening meal.

The driver jinked through the maze of identical-seeming streets withgarrulous confidence and then braked and parked in front of one of thesquare, boxlike, yellow buildings.

"Two minutes," he promised, and jumped out of the Mercedes,

scampered around to the rear and opened the boot. There was ascratching sound, a small bump and then the lid of the boot slammed andthe driver came back into Peter's line of vision carrying a brown paperparcel.

He grinned at Peter, with the ridiculous cap pushed onto the back ofhis head, mouthed another assurance through the closed window: "Twominutes " and went into the main door of the apartment.

Peter hoped he might be longer. The silence was precious. He closedhis eyes, and concentrated.

If Magda is not Caliph then then- There was the ticking sound of theengine cooling, or was it the dashboard clock? Peter thrust the soundto the back of his mind.

then then Cactus Flower exists. Yes, that was it!

My mother-in-law lives Cactus Flower exists, and if he exists he isclose enough to

Caliph to know of Sir Steven Stride's threat to expose him. Peter satupright, rigid in his seat. He had believed. that Steven Stride wouldbe perfectly safe until after the meeting with Caliph. "That was theterrible mistake. Cactus Flower must stop Steven Stride reachingCaliph! Yes, of course. Christ, how had he not seen it before. CactusFlower was

Mossad, and Peter was sitting in a street of Jerusalem Mossad's frontyard dressed as Steven Stride.

Christ! He felt the certainty of mortal danger. Cactus Flowerprobably made the arrangements himself. If Magda Altmann is not

Caliph, then I am walking right into Cactus Flower's sucker punch I The-racking damned clock kept ticking, a sound as nerve as a leakyfaucet.

I am in Cactus Flower's city in Cactus Flower's limo The ticking.

Oh God! It was not coming from the dashboard. Peter turned hishead.

It was coming from behind him; from the boot. the driver had openedand in which he had moved something. Something that was now tickingaway quietly.

Peter wrenched the door handle and hit the door with his shoulder,

instinctively grabbing the Hermes case with his other hand.

They would have stripped out the metal partition between the boot andthe back seat to allow the blast to cut through. There was probablyonly the leather upholstery between him and whatever was ticking. Thatwas why he had heard it so clearly.

Time seemed to have slowed, so he was free to think it out as theseconds dropped as lingeringly as spilled honey.

Infernal machine, he thought. Why that ridiculously nineteenth-centuryterm should occur to him now, he could not guess, a relic from thechildhood days when he read Boy's Own

Paper, perhaps.

He was out of the Mercedes now, almost losing his balance as his feethit the unsurfaced and broken sidewalk.

It is probably plastic explosive with a clockwork timer on thedetonator, he thought, as he started to run. What delay would theyuse? Thirty seconds? No, the driver had to get well away. He hadsaid two minutes, said it twice The thoughts raced through his mind,

but his legs seemed to be shackled, dragging against an enormousweight. Like trying to run waist deep in the sucking surf of a sandybeach.

It will be two minutes, and he has been gone that long. Ten pacesahead of him there was a low wall that had been built as a flower boxaround the apartment block. It was knee high, a double brick wall withthe cavity filled with dry yellow earth and precariously sustaining thelife of a few wizened oleander bushes.

Peter dived head first over the wall, breaking his fall with shoulderand forearm, and rolling back hard under the protection of the lowwall.

Above his head were the large windows of the ground floor apartments.Lying on his side, peering up at them, Peter saw the reflection of theparked Mercedes as though in a mirror.

He covered his ears with the palms of both hands. The Mercedes wasonly fifty feet away. He watched it in the glass, his body braced,

his mouth wide open to absorb blast shock in his sinuses.

The Mercedes erupted. It seemed to open quite sedately, like one ofthose time-elapse movies of a rose blooming.

The shining metal spread and distorted like grotesque black petals, andbright white flame shot through it that was all Peter saw, for the rowof apartment windows disappeared, blown away in a million glitteringshards by the blast wave, leaving the windows gaping like the toothlessmouths of old decrepit men, and at the same moment the blast smashedinto Peter.

Even though it was muted by the thick wall of the flower box, itcrushed him, seemed to drive in his ribs, and the air whooshed from hislungs. The fearsome din of the explosion clamoured in his head,

filling his skull with little bright chips of rainbow light.

He thought he must have lost consciousness for a moment, then there wasthe patter of falling debris raining down around him and somethingstruck him a painful blow in the small of his back. It spurred him.

He dragged himself to his feet, struggling to refill his empty lungs.He knew he had to get away before the security forces arrived,

or he could expect intensive interrogation which would certainlydisclose the fact that he was not Sir Steven.

He started to run. The street was still deserted, although he couldhear the beginning of the uproar which must follow. The cries ofanguish and of fear.

He reached the corner and stopped running. He walked quickly to thenext alley behind an apartment block. There were no street lights andhe paused in the shadows. By now a dozen figures shouting questionsand conjecture were hurrying towards the smoke and dust of theexplosion.

Peter recovered his breath and dusted down his blazer and slacks,

waiting until the confusion and shouting were at their peak. Then hewalked quietly away.

On the main road he joined a short queue at the bus stop. The busdropped him off in the Jaffa Road.

He found a cafe opposite the bus stop and went through into the men'sroom. He was unmarked, but pale and strained; his hands still shookfrom the shock of the blast as he combed his hair.

He went back into the cafe, found a corner seat and ordered falafel andpitta bread with coffee.

He sat there for half an hour, considering his next move, If Magda

Altmann is not Caliph- he repeated the conundrum which he had solvedjust in time to save his life.

Magda Altmann is not Caliph! He knew it then with utter certainty.Cactus Flower had tried to stop Sir Steven Stride reaching

Caliph with his denunciation. Therefore Magda had told him thetruth.

His relief flooded his body with a great warm glow and his firstinstinct was to telephone her at the Mossad number she had given him.

Then he saw the danger. Cactus Flower was Mossad. He dared not gonear her not yet.

What must he do then? And he knew the answer without having to searchfor it. He must do what he had come to do. He must find

Caliph, and the only fragile thread he had to follow was the trailthat

Caliph had laid for him.

He left the cafe and found a taxi at the rank on the corner, "DavidHotel, "Peter said, and sank back in the seat.

At least I know the danger of Cactus Flower now, he thought grimly. Iwon't walk into the next one blind.

Peter took one glance around the room that had been reserved for him.It was in the back of the hotel and across the road the tall bell towerof the YMCA.

made a fine stance from which a sniper could command the two windows.

"I ordered a suite," Peter snapped at the reception clerk who had ledhim up.

"I'm sorry, Sir Steven." The man was immediately flustered.

"There must have been a mistake." Another glance around the room and

Peter had noted half a dozen sites at which Cactus Flower might havelaid another explosive charge to back up the one that had failed in theback of the Mercedes. He would prefer to spend a night in a pit fullof cobras rather than accept the quarters that Cactus Flower hadprepared for him.

Peter stepped back into the passage and fixed the clerk with his mostimperious gaze. The man scampered and returned within five minuteslooking mightily relieved.

"We have one of our best suites for you." Number 122 commanded amagnificent view across the valley to the Jaffa Gate in the wall ofthe

Old City, and in the centre of this vista towered the Church of the

Last Supper.

The gardens of the hotel were lush with lawns and tall graceful palms,children shrieked gleefully around the swimming pool while a cool lightbreeze broke the heat.

The suite abutted onto the long open terrace, and the moment he wasalone, Peter lowered the heavy roller shutters across the terrace door.Cactus Flower could too easily send a man in that way. Then

Peter stepped out onto the private balcony.

On the tall stone battlements of the French Consulate adjoining thegardens they were lowering the Tricolour against the flaming backdropof the sunset. Peter watched it for a moment then concentrated againon the security of the suite.

There was possible access from the room next door, an easy step acrossfrom window to balcony. Peter hesitated then decided to leave thebalcony unshuttered. He could not bring himself to accept theclaustrophobic effect of a completely shuttered room.

Instead he drew the curtains and ordered a large whisky and soda fromroom service. He needed it. It had been a long hard day.

Then he stripped off tie and shirt, wig and mustache and washed awaysome of the tensions. He was to welling himself when there was a tapon the door.

"Damned quick service," he muttered, and clapped the wig on his headand stepped into the lounge, just as a key rattled in the lock and thedoor swung open. Peter lifted the towel and pretended to be stilldrying his face to cover the lack of mustache on his lip.

"Come in," he gruffed through the towel, and then froze in the doorway,and a vice seemed to close around his heart and restrict hisbreathing.

She wore a man's open-neck shirt, with patch pockets on the breasts,and khaki combat breeches hugged her narrow hips. The long legs werethrust into soft-soled canvas boots. Yet she carried herself with thesame unforced chic as if she had been dressed in the height of

Parisian fashion.

"Sir Steven." She closed the door swiftly behind her, and Peter sawher palm the slim metal pick with which she had turned the lock.

"I'm Magda Altmann, we have met before.

I have come to warn you that you are in very grave danger." Theabundant short curls formed a dark halo around her head, and her eyeswere huge and green with concern.

"You must immediately leave this country. I have my private executivejet aircraft at an airfield near here-" Peter lowered the towel enoughto allow himself to speak.

"Why are you telling me this?" he interrupted her brusquely. "And whyshould I believe you?" He saw the quick roses of anger bloom in hercheeks.

"You are dabbling in things you do not understand."

"Why should you want to warn me?" Peter insisted.

"Because-" she hesitated and then went on sharply, because you are

Peter Stride's brother. For that reason and no other I would not wantyou killed." Peter tossed the towel back into the bathroom and withthe same movement pulled off the wig and dropped it onto the chairbeside him.

"Peter!" Astonishment riveted her and she stared at him, the colourthat anger had painted in her cheeks fled and her eyes turned a deepluminous green. He had forgotten once again how beautiful she was.

"Well, don't just stand there," he said, and she ran to him on thoselong, graceful legs and flung her arms around his neck.

They strained together silently, neither of them found words necessaryfor many minutes. Then she broke away.

"Peter, darling I cannot stay long. I took a terrible chance cominghere at all. They are watching the hotel and the girls on theswitchboard are Mossad. That is why I could not telephone-"

"Tell me everything you can," he ordered.

"All right, but hold me, Cheri. I do not wish to waste a minute ofthis little time we have together." She hid in the bathroom when thewaiter brought the whisky, then joined Peter on the couch.

"Cactus Flower reported to control that Steven had requested a meetingwith Caliph, and that he intended to denounce him. That was all I knewuntil yesterday but I could build on that. First of all I

was amazed that Steven was the subject of the first Cactus Flowerreport and not you, Peter-" She caressed the smooth hard brown muscleof his chest as she spoke.." It had never occured to me, even when wediscussed the fact that the report mentioned no Christian name."

"It didn't occur to me either, not until I'd already left Les Neuf

Poissons."

"Then, of course, I guessed that you had taxed Steven with it, and toldhim the source of your information. It would have been a crazy thingto do not your usual style, at all. But I thought that being yourbrother-" She trailed off.

"That is exactly what I did-" Peter, we could still talk if we were onthe bed," she murmured. "I have been without you for so long."

Her bare skin felt like hot satin, and they lay entwined with the hardsmooth plain of her belly pressed to his. Her mouth was against hisear.

Steven's request for a meeting went directly to Caliph through achannel other than Cactus Flower. He had no chance to head it off-"

"Who is Cactus Flower, have you found that out?"

"No." She shook her head. "I still do not know." And she raked herlong fingernails lightly down across his belly.

"If you do that I cannot think clearly," he protested.

"I am sorry." She brought her hand up to his cheek.

"Anyway, Caliph instructed Cactus Flower to arrange the meeting withSteven. I did not know what arrangements were being made until

I saw Sir Steven's name on the immigration lists this evening. I wasnot particularly looking for his name, but as soon as I saw it I

guessed what was happening. I guessed that Cactus Flower had enticedhim here to make his interception easier. It took me three hours tofind where Sir Steven would be staying." They were both silent now,and she lowered her face and pressed it into the soft of his neck,sighing with happiness.

oh God, Peter. How I missed you."

"Listen, my darling. You must tell me everything else you have." Peterlifted her chin tenderly so he could see her face and her eyes cameback into focus.

"Did you know that there was to be an assassination attempt on

Steven?"

"No but it was the logical step for Mossad to protect Cactus

Flower."

"What else?"

"Nothing." You don't know if actual arrangements have been made for ameeting between Caliph and Steven?" if "No, I

don't know, "she admitted.

"You still have no indication at all of Caliph's identity?"

"No,

none at all." They were silent again, but now she propped herself onone elbow and watched his face as he spoke.

Cactus Flower would have to make the arrangements for the" meeting asCaliph instructed. He would not be able to take the chance of fakingit not with Caliph." Magda nodded in silent agreement.

"Therefore we have to believe that at this moment Caliph is close,

very close."

"Yes. "She nodded again, but reluctantly.

"That means that I have to go on impersonating Steven."

"Peter,

no. They will kill you."

"They have already tried-" Peter told her grimly, and quietly outlinedthe destruction of the Mercedes. She touched the bruise in the smallof his back where he had been struck by flying debris from theexplosion.

"They won't let you get close to Caliph."

"They may have no choice," Peter told her. "Caliph is so concerned forhis own safety he is going to insist on the meeting."

"They will try and kill you again, "she implored him.

"Perhaps, but I'm betting the meeting with Caliph is arranged to takeplace very soon. They won't have much opportunity to set up anotherelaborate trap like the Mercedes, and I'll be expecting it I've got togo ahead with it, Magda."

"Oh, Peter-" But he touched her lips, silencing the protest, and he wasthinking aloud again.

"Let's suppose Mossad knew that I was not Steven Stride, that my realpurpose was not to denounce Cactus Flower?

What difference would that make to the thinking at Mossad?" Sheconsidered that. "I'm not certain."

"If they knew it was Peter Stride impersonating Steven Stride heinsisted, "would that make them curious enough to let the meeting goahead?"

"Peter, are you suggesting

I turn in a report to my control at Mossad ?"

"Would you do that?"

"Sweet merciful God," she whispered. "I

could be signing your death warrant, Peter my darling." or you couldbe saving my life."

"I don't know." She sat up erect in the bed and ran the fingers ofboth hands through the short dark curls, the lamplight glowed on herskin with a pale, smooth opalescence and the small fine breasts changedshape as she moved her arms. "Oh, Peter, I don't know."

"It could be our only chance to ever get close to Caliph," he insisted,and the lovely face was naked with indecision.

"Caliph believes I have killed you, he believes that I have transmitteda warning to him through my brother. He will have his guard as low asever it will be. We will never have a chance again like this "I am soafraid for you, Peter. I am so afraid for myself without you-" She didnot finish it, but pulled up her long naked legs and hugged her kneesto her breasts. It was a defensive foetal position.

"Will you do it?" he asked gently.

"You want me to tell my control your real identity, to tell him that Ibelieve your real purpose is not to denounce Cactus Flower but someother unknown-"

"That is right." She turned her head and looked at him.

"I will do it in exchange for your promise," she decided.

"What is that?"

"If I judge from my control at Mossad that you are still in danger, andthat they still intend intercepting you before you reach Caliph then Iwant your promise that you will abandon the attempt. That you willimmediately go to where the Lear is waiting and that you will allowPierre to fly you out of here to a safe place."

"You will be honest with me?" he asked. "You will judge Mossad'sreaction fairly and even if there is a half-decent chance of mereaching Caliph you will allow me to take that chance?" She nodded,but he went on grimly, making certain of it.

"Swear it to me!"

"I would not try to prevent you just as long as there is a chance ofsuccess."

"Swear it to me, Magda."

"On my love for you, I swear it," she said quietly, and he relaxedslightly.

"And I in turn swear to you that if there is no chance of meeting

Caliph I will leave on the Lear." She turned against his chest,

wrapping both her arms around his neck.

"Make love to me, Peter. Now! Quickly! I have to have that atleast." As she dressed she went over the arrangements forcommunicating.

"I cannot come through the switchboard here I explained why,"

she told him as she laced the canvas boots.

"You must stay here, in this room where I can reach you. If there isdanger I will send someone to you. It will be somebody I trust. Hewill say simply. "Magda sent me," and you must go with him. He willtake you to Pierre and the Lear jet." She stood up and belted thekhaki breeches around her narrow waist, crossing to the mirror to combout the dark damp tangle of her curls.

"If you hear nothing from me it will mean that I judge there is still achance of reaching Caliph-" Then she paused and her expression altered."Are you armed, Peter?" She was watching him in the mirror as sheworked with her hair. He shook his head.

"I could get a weapon to you a knife, a pistol, And again he shook hishead. "They will search me before I am allowed near Caliph.

If they find a weapon-" He did not have to finish it.

"You are right, "she agreed.

She turned back to him from the mirror, buttoning the shirt over thenipples of her breasts, which were still swollen and dark rosy red fromtheir loving.

"it will all happen very quickly now, Peter. One way or the other itwill be over by tomorrow night. I have a feeling here " She touchedherself between the small breasts that pushed out the cotton of hershirt. "Now kiss me. I have stayed too long already for the safety ofboth of us." Peter slept very little after Magda left him, even thoughhe was very tired. A dozen times he started awake during the nightwith every nerve strung tightly, rigid and sweating in his bed.

He was up before first light, and ordered one of those strange

Israeli breakfasts of salads and hard-boiled eggs with pale greencentres to be sent up to his room.

Then he settled down once more to wait.

He waited the morning out, and when there had been no message from

Magda by noon, the certainty increased that Mossad had decided not toprevent the meeting with Caliph. If there had been any doubt in

Magda's mind she would have sent for him. He had a light lunch sent upto the room.

The flat bright glare of noon gradually mellowed into warmbutter-yellow, the shadows crept out timidly from the foot of the palmtrees in the garden as the sun wheeled across a sky of clear highaching blue, and still Peter waited.

When there was an hour left of daylight, the telephone rang again.

It startled him, but he reached for it quickly.

"Good evening, Sir Steven. Your driver is here to fetch you,"

said the girl at the reception desk.

"Thank you. Please tell him I will be down directly," said Peter.

He was fully dressed, had been ready all that day to move immediately.He needed only to place the -crocodile skin case in the cupboard andlock it, then he left the room and strode down the corridor to theelevators.

He had no way of knowing if he was going to meet Caliph, or if he wasabout to be spirited out of Israel in Magda's Lear jet.

"Your limousine is waiting outside," the pretty girl at the desk toldhim. "Have a nice evening."

"I hope so," Peter agreed. "Thank you." The car was a small Japanesecompact, and the driver was a woman,

plump and grey-haired with a friendly, ugly face like Golda Meir, Peterthought.

He let himself into the back seat, and waited expectantly for themessage, "Magda sent me." Instead, the woman bade him "ShalomShalom"

politely, started the engine, switched on the headlights and droveserenely out of the hotel grounds.

They swept sedately around the outer walls of the old city in thegathering dusk, and dropped down in the valley of Kidron. Glancingback Peter saw the elegant new buildings of the Jewish quarter risingabove the tops of the walls.

When last he had been in Jerusalem that area had been a deserted ruin,deliberately devastated by the Arabs.

The resurrection of that holy quarter of Judaism seemed to epitomizethe spirit of these extraordinary people, Peter thought.

It was a good conversational opening, and he remarked on the newdevelopment to his driver.

She replied in Hebrew, clearly denying the ability to speak

English. Peter tried her in French with the same result.

The lady has been ordered to keep her mouth tight shut, he decided.

The night came down upon them as they skirted the lower slopes of theMount of Olives, and left the last straggling buildings of the Arabsettlements. The lady driver settled down to a comfortable speed, andthe road was almost deserted. It dropped gently down through a darkshallow valley, with the crests of a desolate desert landscape humpedup on each side of the wide metal led road.

0 The sky was empty of cloud or haze, and the stars were brighter whiteand clearer, as the last of the day faded from the western sky behindthem.

The road had been well sign-posted, ever since they had left the city.Their direction was eastward towards the Jordan, the Dead Sea andJericho and twenty-five minutes after leaving the King David,

Peter glimpsed in the headlights the signpost on the right-hand side ofthe road, declaring in English, Arabic and Hebrew that they were nowdescending below sea level into the valley of the Dead Sea.

Once again Peter attempted to engage the driver in conversation,

but her reply was monosyllabic. Anyway, Peter decided, there wasnothing she would be able to tell him. The car was from a hirecompany. There was a plastic nameplate fastened onto the dashboardgiving the company's name, address and hire rates. All she would knowwas their final destination and he would know that soon enoughhimself.

Peter made no further attempt to speak to her, but remained completelyalert; without detectable movement he performed the prejurnpparatrooper exercises, pitting muscle against muscle so that his bodywould not stiffen with long inactivity but would be tuned to explodefrom stillness into instant violent action.

Ahead of them the warning signals of the crossroads caught theheadlights, and the driver slowed and signalled the left turn. As theheadlights caught the signpost, Peter saw that they had taken the

Jericho road, turning away from the Dead Sea, and heading up the valleyof the Jordan towards Galilee in the north.

Now the bull's horns of the new moon rose slowly over the harshmountain peaks across the valley, and gave enough light to pick outsmall features in the dry blasted desert around them.

Again the driver slowed, this time for the town of Jericho itself,

the oldest site of human communal habitation on this earth for sixthousand years men had lived here and their wastes had raised amountainous hill hundreds of feet above the desert floor.

Archaeologists had already excavated the collapsed walls that Joshuahad brought crashing down with a blast of his ram's horns.

"A hell of a trick." Peter grinned in the darkness. "Better than thenuke bomb." Just before they reached the hill, the driver swung offthe main road. She took the narrow secondary road between theclustered buildings souvenir stalls, Arab cafes, antique dealers andslowed for the twisting uneven surface.

They ground up onto higher dry hills in low gear, and at the crest thedriver turned again onto a dirt track. Now fine talcum dust filled theinterior and Peter sneezed once at the tickle of it.

Half a mile along the track a notice board stood on trestle legs,

blocking the right of way.

"Military Zone," it proclaimed. "No access beyond this point." A Thedriver had to pull out onto the rocky verge to avoid the notice, andthere were no sentries to enforce the printed order.

Quite suddenly Peter became aware of the great black cliff face thatrose sheer into the starry night ahead of them blotting out half thesky.

Something stirred in Peter's memory the high cliffs above

Jericho, looking out across the valley of the Dead Sea; of course, heremembered then this was the scene of the temptation of Christ. Howdid Matthew record it? Peter cast for the exact quotation: Again, thedevil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth himall the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them. Had Caliphdeliberately chosen this place for its mystical association, was it allpart of the quasi-religious image that Caliph had of himself?

He shall give his angels charge concerning thee: and in their handsthey shall bear thee up. Did Caliph truly see himself as the heir toultimate power over all the kingdoms of the world that power that theancient chroniclers had referred to as "The Sixth Order of Angels'?

Peter felt his spirits quail in the face of such monumental madness,such immense and menacing vision, compared to which he feltinsignificant and ineffectual. Fear fell over him like a gladiator'snet, enmeshing his resolve, weakening him. He struggled with itsilently, fighting himself clear of its mesh before it could render himhelpless in Caliph's all embracing power.

The driver stopped abruptly, turned in the seat and switched on the cablight. She studied him for a moment.

Was there a touch of pity in her old and ugly face, Peter wondered?

"Here,"she said gently.

Peter drew his wallet from the inner pocket of his blazer.

"No, hesh(-)okherhead. "No you owe nothing."

"Toda raba." Peter thanked her in his fragmentary Hebrew, and openedthe side door.

The desert air was still and cold, and there was the sagey smell of thelow thorny scrub.

"Shalom," said the woman through the open window; then she swung thevehicle in a tight turn. The headlights swept the grove of date palmsahead of them, and then turned back towards the open desert.

Slowly the small car pitched and wove along the track in the directionfrom which they had come.

Peter turned his back on it, allowing his eyes to become accustomed tothe muted light of the yellow homed moon and the whiter light of thefat desert stars.

After a few minutes he picked his way carefully into the palm grove.There was the smell of smoke from a dung fire, and the fine blue mistof smoke hung amongst the trees.

Somewhere in the grove he heard a goat bleat plaintively, and then thehigh thin wail of a child there must be a Bedouin encampment in theoasis. He moved towards it, and came abruptly into an openingsurrounded by the palms. The earth had been churned by the hooves ofmany beasts, and Peter stumbled slightly in the loose footing and thencaught his balance.

In the centre of the opening was the stone parapet which guarded a deepfresh-water well. There was a primitive windlass set above the parapetand another dark object which Peter could not immediately identify,dark and shapeless, crouching upon the parapet.

He went towards it cautiously, and felt his heart tumble within him asit moved.

It was a human figure, in some long voluminous robe that swept thesandy earth, so that it seemed to float towards him in the gloom.

The figure stopped five paces from him, and he saw that the head wascovered by a monk's cowl of the same dark woollen cloth, so that theface was in a forbidding black hole beneath the cowl.

"Who are you?" Peter demanded, and his voice rasped in his own ears.The monk did not reply, but shook one hand free of the wide sleeve andbeckoned to him to follow, then turned and glided away into the palmgrove.

Peter went after him, and within a hundred yards was stepping out hardto keep the monk in sight. His light city shoes were not made for thisheavy going, loose sand with scattered outcrops of shattered rock.

They left the palm grove and directly ahead of them, less than aquarter of a mile away, the cliff fell from the sky like a vast cascadeof black stone.

The monk led him along a rough but well-used footpath, and though

Peter tried to narrow the distance between them, he found that he wouldhave to break into a trot to do so for although the monk appeared to bea broad and heavy man beneath the billowing robe, yet he moved lithelyand lightly.

They reached the cliff, and the path zigzagged up it, at such agradient that they had to lean forward into it. The surface was loosewith shale and dry earth becoming progressively steeper. Thenunderfoot the path was paved, the worn steps of solid rock.

On one hand the drop away into the valley was deeper always and thesheer cliff on the other seemed to lean out as though to press him overthe edge.

Always the monk was ahead of him, tireless and quick, his feet silenton the worn steps, and there was no sound of labouring breath.

Peter realized that a man of that stamina and bulk must be immenselypowerful. He did not move as you might expect a man of God and prayerto move. There was the awareness and balance of a fighting man abouthim, the unconscious pride and force of the warrior. With Caliphnothing was ever as it seemed, he thought.

The higher they climbed, so the moonlit panorama below them became moremagnificent, a soaring vista of desert and mountain with the greatshield of the Dead Sea a brilliant beaten silver beneath the stars. All the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them, Peter thought.

They had not paused to rest once on the climb. How high was it,

Peter wondered a thousand feet, fifteen hundred perhaps? His ownbreathing was deep and steady, he was not yet fully extended and thelight sweat that de wed his forehead cooled in the night air.

Something nudged his memory, and he sniffed at the faintly perfumedaroma on the air. It was not steady, but he had caught it faintly onceor twice during the climb.

Peter was plagued by the non-smoker's acute sense of smell;

perfumes and odours always had special significance for him and thissmell was important, but he could not quite place it now. It nagged athim, but then it was lost in a host of other more powerful odours thesmell of human beings in community.

The smell of cooking smoke, of food and the underlying sickly taint ofrotting garbage and primitive sewage disposal.

Somewhere long ago he had seen photographs of the ancient monasterybuilt into the top of these spectacular Cliffs, the caves andsubterranean chambers honeycombed the crest of the rock face, and wallsof hewn rock had been built above them by men dead these thousandyears.

Yet the memory of that faint perfumed aroma lingered with Peter,

as they climbed the last hundred feet of that terrifying drop and cameout suddenly against the stone tower and thick fortification, intowhich was set a heavy timber door twelve feet high and studded. withiron bolts.

At their approach the door swung open. There was a narrow stonepassageway ahead of them lit by a single storm lantern in a niche atthe corner of the passageway.

As Peter stepped through the gate, two other figures closed on eachside of him out of the darkness and he moved instinctively to defendhimself, but checked the movement and stood quiescent with his handhalf raised as they searched him with painstaking expertise for aweapon.

Both these men were dressed in single-piece combat suits, and they worecanvas paratrooper boots. Their heads were covered by coarse woollenscarves wound over mouth and nose so only their eyes showed.

Each of them carried the ubiquitous Uzi sub-machine guns, loaded andcocked and slung on shoulder straps.

At last they stood back satisfied, and the monk led Peter on through amaze of narrow passages. Somewhere there was the sound of monks attheir devotions, the harsh chanting of the Greek Orthodox service. Thesound of it, and the smoky cedar wood aroma of burning incense, becamestronger, until the monk led Peter into a cavernous,

dimly lit church nave hewn from the living rock of the cliff.

In the gloom the old Greek monks sat like long embalmed mummies intheir tall dark wooden pews. Their time-worn faces masked by the greatblack bushes of their beards. Only their eyes glittered, alive as thejewels and precious metals that gilded the ancient religious icons onthe stone walls.

The reek of incense was overpowering, and the hoarse chant of theoffice missed not a single beat as Peter and the robed monk passedswiftly amongst them.

In the impenetrable shadows at the rear of the church, the monk seemedabruptly to disappear, but when Peter reached the spot he discoveredthat one of the carved pews had been swung aside to reveal a darksecret opening in the rock.

Peter went into it cautiously. It was totally dark but his feet foundshallow stone steps, and he climbed a twisting stairway through therock counting the steps to five hundred, each step approximately sixinches high.

Abruptly he stepped out into the cool desert night again.

He was in a paved open courtyard, with the brilliant panoply of thestars overhead, the cliff rising straight ahead and a low stone parapetprotecting the sheer drop into the valley behind him.

Peter realized that this must be one of the remotest and most easilydefensible rendezvous that Caliph could have chosen and there were moreguards here.

Again they came forward, two of them, and searched him once again evenmore thoroughly than at the monastery gate.

While they worked Peter looked around him swiftly. The level courtyardwas perched like an eagle's eyrie on the brink of the precipice, theparapet wall was five feet high.

Across the courtyard were the oblong entrances to caves carved into thecliff face. They would probably be the retreats of the monks seekingsolitude.

There were other men in the courtyard, wearing the same uniform withheads hidden by the Arab shawl headgear. Two of them were setting outflashlight beacons in the shape of a pyramid.

Peter realized they were beacons for an aircraft. Not an aircraft. Ahelicopter was the only vehicle which would be able to get into thisprecarious perch on the side of the precipice.

All right then, the beacons would serve to direct a helicopter downinto the level paved courtyard.

One of the armed guards ended his body search by checking the buckle ofPeter's belt, tugging it experimentally to make certain it was not thehandle of a concealed blade.

He stood back and motioned Peter forward. Across the courtyard the bigmonk waited patiently at the entrance to one of the stone cells thatopened onto the Courtyard.

Peter stooped through the low entrance. The cell was dimly lit by astinking kerosene lamp set in a stone niche above the narrow cot.

There was a crude wooden table against one wall, a plain crucifix aboveit and no other ornamentation.

Hewn from the rock wall was a ledge which acted as a shelf for a dozenheavy battered leather-bound books and a few basic eating utensils. Itwas also a primitive seat.

The monk motioned him towards it, but himself remained standing by theentrance to the cell with his hands thrust into the wide sleeves of hiscassock, his face turned away and still masked completely by the deephood.

There was utter silence from the courtyard beyond the doorway, but itwas an electric waiting silence.

Suddenly Peter was aware of the perfumed aroma again, here in the crudestone cell, and then with a small tingling shock he recognized it. Thesmell came from the monk.

He knew instantly who the big man in the monk's cowl was, and theknowledge confused him utterly, for long stricken moments.

Then like the click of a well-oiled lock slipping home it all cametogether. He knew oh God he knew at last.

The aroma he had recognized was the faint trace of the perfumed smokeof expensive Dutch cheroots, and he stared fixedly at the big hoodedmonk.

Now there was a sound on the air, a faint flutter like moth's wingsagainst the glass of the lantern, and the monk cocked his headslightly, listening intently.

Peter was balancing distances and times and odds in his head.

The monk, the five armed men in the courtyard, the approachinghelicopter The monk was the most dangerous factor. Now that Peter knewwho he was, he knew also that he was one of the most highly trainedfighting men against whom he could ever match himself.

The five men in the yard Peter blinked with sudden realization. Theywould not be there any longer. It was as simp leas that. Caliph wouldnever allow himself to be seen by any but his most trusted lieutenants,and by those about to die. The monk would have sent them away. Theywould be waiting close by, but it would take them time to get back intoaction.

There were only the monk and Caliph. For he knew that the dinning ofrotor and engine was bringing Caliph in to the rendezvous. Thehelicopter sounded as though it were already directly overhead. Themonk's attention was on it.

Peter could see how he held his head under the cowl, he was off-guardfor the first time.

Peter heard the sound of the spinning rotors change as the pilotaltered pitch for the vertical descent into the tiny courtyard. Thecell was lit through the doorway by the reflection of the helicopter'slanding lights beating down into the courtyard with a relentless whiteglare.

Dust began to swirl from the down-draught of the rotors, it smoked inpale wisps into the cell and the monk moved.

He stepped to the doorway, the empty dark hole in the cowl which washis face turned briefly away from Peter as he glanced out through theentrance of the cell.

It was the moment for which Peter had waited, his whole body wascharged, like the S in an adder's neck before it strikes. At theinstant that the monk turned his head away, Peter launched himselfacross the cell.

He had ten feet to go, and the thunder of the helicopter's enginescovered all sound yet still some instinct of the fighting man warnedthe huge monk, and he spun into the arc of Peter's attack. The headunder the cowl dropped defensively, so that Peter had to change hisstroke. He could no longer go for the kill at the neck, and he chosethe right shoulder for a crippling blow. His hand was stiff as aheadman's blade and it slogged into the monk's shoulder between theneck and the humerus joint of the upper arm.

Peter heard the collar bone break with a sharp brittle crack, highabove even the roar of the helicopter's engines.

With his left hand Peter caught the monk's crippled arm at the elbowand yanked it up savagely, driving the one edge of shattered boneagainst the other so it grated harshly, twisting it so the bone shardswere razor cutting edges in their own living flesh and the monkscreamed, doubling from the waist to try and relieve the intolerableagony in his shoulder.

Shock had paralysed him, the big powerful body went slack in

Peter's grasp.

Peter used all his weight and the impetus of his rush to drive themonk's head into the doorjamb of the cell; skull met stone with a solidclunk and the big man dropped facedown to the paved floor.

Peter rolled him swiftly and pulled up the skirts of the cassock.

Under it the man wore paratrooper boots and the blue full-lengthoveralls of Thor Command. On his webbing belt was the blue steel andpolished walnut butt of the Browning Hi-power .45 pistol in itsquick-release holster.

Peter sprang it from its steel retaining clamp and cocked the pistolwith a sweep of the left hand. It would be loaded with Velexexplosives.

The woollen folds of the cowl had fallen back from Colin Noble's head,the wide generous mouth now hanging open slackly, the burned-toffeeeyes glazed with concussion, the big crooked prize-fighter's nose allthe well-remembered features, once so dearly cherished incomradeship.

Blood was streaming from Colin's thick curling hairline, running downhis forehead and under his ear but he was still conscious.

Peter put the muzzle of the Browning against the bridge of his nose.The Velex bullet would cut the top off his skull.

Peter had lost his wig in those desperate seconds, and he sawrecognition spark in Colin's stunned eyes.

"Peter! No!" croaked Colin desperately.

I'm Cactus Flower!" The shock of it hit Peter solidly, and he releasedthe pressure on the Browning's trigger. It held him for only a momentand then he turned and ducked through the low doorway leaving Colinsprawling on the stone floor of the cell." The helicopter had settledinto the courtyard. It was a five-seater Bell jet Ranger, painted inthe blue and gold colours of Thor Command and on its side was the

Thor emblem and the words:

THOR COMMUNICATIONS

There was a pilot still at the controls, and one other man who hadalready left the cabin of the machine and was coming towards theentrance of the cell.

Even though he was doubled over to avoid the swirling rotor blades,there was no mistaking the tall powerful frame.

The high wind of the rotors tumbled the thick greying leonine curlsabout the noble head, and the landing lights lit him starkly like thecentral character in some Shakespearian tragedy - a towering presencethat transcended his mere physical stature.

Kingston Parker straightened as he came out from under the swingingrotor, and for an earth-stopping instant of time he stared at

Peter across the stone-paved courtyard. Without the wig herecognized

Peter instantly.

Kingston Parker stood for that instant like an old lion brought tobay.

"Caliph!" Peter called harshly, and the last doubt was gone as

Kingston Parker whirled, incredibly swiftly for such a big man. He hadalmost reached the cabin door of the Jet Ranger before Peter had the

Browning up.

The first shot hit Parker in the back, and flung him Now forwardthrough the open door, but the gun had thrown high and right. It wasnot a killing shot, Peter knew it, and now the helicopter was risingswiftly, turning on its own axis, rising out over the edge of theprecipice.

Peter ran twenty feet and jumped to the parapet of the hewn stone wall.The jet Ranger soared above him, its belly white and bloated like thatof a man-eating shark, the landing lights blazing down, half dazzlingPeter. It swung out over the edge of the cliff.

Peter took the Browning double-handed, shooting directly Upwards,

judging the exact position of the fuel tank in the rear of thefuselage, where it joined the long stalk like tail and he pumped thebig heavy explosive shells out of the gun, the recoil pounding down hisoutflung arms and jolting into his shoulders.

He saw the Velex bullets biting into the thin metal skin of theunderbelly, the tiny wink of each bullet as it burst, but still themachine reared away above him and he had been counting his shots.

The Browning was almost empty.

Seven, eight then suddenly the sky above him filled with flame,

and the great whooshing concussion of air jarred the stone under hisfeet.

The jet Ranger turned over on her back, a bright bouquet of flame,

the engine howling its death cry, and it toppled beyond the edge of theprecipice and plunged, burning savagely, into the dark void belowwhere

Peter stood.

Peter began to turn back towards the courtyard, and he saw the armedmen pouring in through the stone gateway.

They were Thor men, picked fighting men, men he had trained himself.There was one bullet left in the Browning.

He knew he was not going to make it but he made a try for the entranceto the stairway, his only escape route.

He ran along the top of the stone wall like a tightrope artist,

and he snapped the single remaining bullet at the running men todistract them.

The crackle of passing shot dinned in his head, and he flinched andmissed his footing. He began to fall, twisting sideways away from theedge of the precipice but then the bullets thumped into his flesh.

He heard the bullets going into his body with the rubbery socking soundof a heavyweight boxer hitting the heavy punch bag, and then he wasflung out over the wall into the bottomless night.

He expected to fall for ever, a thousand feet to the desert floorbelow, where already the helicopter was shooting a hundred-footfountain of fire into the air to mark Caliph's funeral pyre.

There was a narrow ledge ten feet below the parapet where a thornywreath of desert scrub had found a precarious hold. Peter fell intoit, and the curved thorns hooked into his clothing and into hisflesh.

He hung there over the drop, and his senses began to fade.

His last clear memory was Colin Noble's bull bellow of command to thefive Thor guards.

"Cease fire! Don't shoot again!" And then the darkness filled

Peter's head.

In the darkness there were lucid moments, each disconnected from theother by eternities of pain and confused nightmare distortions of themind.

He remembered being lifted up through the hatchway of an aircraft,

lying in one of the light body-fitting Thor stretchers, strapped to ittightly, helpless as a newborn infant.

There was the memory of the inside cabin of Magda Altmann's Lear jet.He recognized the hand-painted decoration of the curved cabin roof.There were plasma bottles suspended above him; the whole blood was thebeautiful ruby colour of fine claret in a crystal glass, and when herolled his eyes downwards he saw the tubes connected to the thickbright needles driven into his arms but he was terribly tired,

an utter weariness that seemed to have bruised and crushed his soul andhe closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, there was the roof of a long brightlylit corridor passing swiftly in front of his eyes.

The feeling Of motion, and the scratchy squeak of the wheels of atheatre trolley.

Quiet voices were speaking in French, and the bottle of beautifulbright blood was held above him by long slim hands that he knew sowell.

He rolled his head slightly and he saw Magda's beloved face swimming onthe periphery of his vision.

"I love you," he said, but there was no sound and he realized that hislips had not moved. He could no longer support the weariness and helet his eyelids droop closed.

"How bad is it?" he heard Magda's voice speaking in that beautifulrippling French, and a man replied.

"One bullet is lying very close to the heart we must remove itimmediately." Then the prick of something into his flesh searching forthe vein, and the sudden musty taste of Pentothal on his tongue,

followed by the abrupt singing plunge back into the darkness.

He came back very slowly out of the darkness, conscious first of thebandages that swathed his chest and restricted his breathing.

The next thing he was aware of was Magda Altmann, and how beautiful shewas. It seemed that she must have been there all along while he was inthe darkness. He watched the joy bloom in her face as she saw that hewas conscious.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for coming back to me, mydarling." Then there was the room at La Pierre Benite, with its highgilded ceilings and the view through the tall sash windows across theterraced lawns down to the lake. The trees along the edge of the waterwere in full leaf, and the very air seemed charged with spring and thepromise of new life. Magda had filled the room with banks offlowers,

and she was with him during most of each day.

"what happened when you walked back into the boardroom at Altmann

Industries?" was one of the first questions he asked her.

"Consternation, cheri." She chuckled, that husky little laugh of hers."They had already divided the spoils." The visitor came when

Peter had been at La Pierre benite for eight days, and was able to sitin one of the brocaded chairs by the window.

Parker used one of his other agents. I did not know it was going tohappen." Peter stared at him, hard and unforgiving.

"Only after we had recovered Melissa-Jane, only then I knew that

Caliph had planned it. If I had known I would never have let ithappen. Caliph must have known that.

That is why he did not make me do it." Colin was speaking quickly,

urgently.

"What was Parker's object?" Peter's voice was still a vicious hiss.

"He had three separate objects. Firstly, to convince you that he wasnot Caliph. that's why his first order was to have you kill Parkerhimself. Of course, you never would have got near him. Then you wereallowed to recover your daughter. It was Caliph himself who gave us

O'Shaughnessy's name and where to find him. Then you were turnedonto

Magda Altmann-" Colin glanced at her apologetically. "Once you hadkilled her, you would have been bound to Caliph by guilt."

"When did you learn this?" Peter demanded.

"The day after we found Melissa-Jane. By then there was nothing I

could do that would not expose me as Cactus Flower all I could do wasto pass a warning to Magda A through Mossad."

"It's true, Peter," said

Magda quietly.

Slowly the rigidity went out of Peter's shoulders.

"When did Caliph recruit you as his Chief Lieutenantr he asked,

his voice also had altered, softened.

"As soon as I took over Thor Command from you, He was never certain ofyou, Peter, that was why he opposed your appointment to head of Thorand why he jumped at the first chance to have you fired.

That was why he tried to have you killed on the Rambouillet road. Onlyafter the attempt failed did he realize your potential value to him."

"Are the other Atlas unit commanders Caliph's lieutenants Tanner at

Mercury Command, Peterson at Diana?"

"All three of us. Yes!" Colin nodded, and there was a long silence.

"What else do you want to know, Peter?" Colin asked softly. "Arethere any other questions?"

"Not now." Peter shook his head wearily.

"There will be many others later." Colin looked up at Magda Altmanninquiringly. "Is he strong enough yet?" he asked. "Can I tell himthe rest of it?" She hesitated a moment. "Yes," she decided. "Tellhim now."

"Atlas was to be the secret da get in the sleeve of Westerncivilization a civilization which had emasculated itself and abaseditself before its enemies. For once we would be able to meet nakedviolence and piracy with raw force.

Atlas is a chain of powerful men of many nations banded together,

and Caliph was to be its executive chief. Atlas is the only agencywhich transcends all national boundaries, and has as its object thesurvival of Western society as we know it. Atlas still exists, itsstructure is complete only Caliph is dead. He died in a mostunfortunate air accident over the or dan valley but Atlas still exists.It has to go on, once that part which Caliph has perverted is rootedout.

It is our hope for the future in a world gone mad." Peter had neverheard him speak so articulately, so persuasively.

"You know, of course, Peter, that you were the original choice tocommand Atlas. However, the wrong man superseded you although nobodycould know he was the wrong man at that time. Kingston Parker seemedto have all the qualities needed for the task but there were hiddendefects which only became apparent much later." Colin beganenumerating them, holding up the fingers of his uninjured arm.

"Firstly, he lacked physical courage. He became obsessed with his ownphysical safety grossly abusing his powers to protect himself.

"Secondly, he was a man of unsuspected and overbearing ambition,

with an ungoverned lust for raw power. Atlas swiftly became thevehicle to carry him to glory. His first goal was the Presidency ofthe United States. He was using Atlas to destroy his politicalopponents. Had he succeeded in achieving the presidency, no man cantell what his next goal would have been." Colin dropped his hand andballed it into a fist.

"The decision to allow you to reach the rendezvous with Kingston

Parker on the cliffs above Jericho was made by more than one man inmore than one country." Colin grinned again, boyishly, disarmingly.

"I did not even know it was you. I believed it was Steven Stride,

right up until the moment I turned my back on you!"

"Tell him," said

Magda quietly, "Get it over with, Colin.

He is still very weak."

"Yes," Colin agreed. "I'll do it now.

Yesterday at noon, your appointment to succeed Doctor Kingston Parkeras head of Atlas Command was secretly confirmed." For Peter it was asthough a door had at last opened, a door so long closed and locked, butthrough it now he could see his destiny stretching out ahead Of him;

clearly he could see it for the first time.

"You are the man best suited by nature and by training to fill the voidwhich Kingston Parker has left." Even through the weakness of hisabused body, Peter could feel a deep well of strength and determinationwithin himself which he had never before suspected. It was as thoughit had been reserved expressly for this time, for this task.

"Will you accept the command of Atlas?" Colin asked.

"What answer must I take back with me?" Magda's long fingers tightenedon his shoulder, and they waited while he made his decision.

It came almost immediately. There was no alternative open to him,

Peter knew that it was his destiny.

"Yes, , he said clearly. "Tell them I accept the responsibility."

It was a solemn moment, nobody smiled nor spoke for long seconds, andthen: "Caliph is dead," Magda whispered. "Long live Caliph." Peter

Stride raised his head to look at her, but his voice when he repliedwas so cold that it seemed to frost upon his lips.

"Never," he said, "call me that again, ever." Magda made a smallgesture of acquiescence, of total accord, then she stooped to kiss himon the mouth.